


Glorfindel's Yuletide Reunion

by Runewif (Wynja2007)



Series: Glorfindel's Yuletides [3]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Dragons, Fighting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Orcs, Sailing To Valinor, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2016-03-01
Packaged: 2018-05-10 07:00:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 38,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5575774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wynja2007/pseuds/Runewif
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU riff on the Starlight Gemstone universe.  Glorfindel is pining for Triwathon, and in an attempt to refocus, decides to sail with Elrond for Valinor.</p><p>But is it the right decision? And if not, what can he do about it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Valinor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CassieHughes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CassieHughes/gifts).



> A birthday gift for Cassie Hughes who has had much to say on the subject of Glorfindel and Triwathon...

Glorfindel stared towards the long-awaited shores of Valinor. The sky above was blue, the sea beneath the boat was blue, almost as blue as his eyes, the sunlight almost as golden as his hair, but Glorfindel had no thought for himself. All his attention was trained on the shore, the little welcoming crowd gathered there.

With him on the boat an assortment of friends and strangers; Elrond and Galadriel, Gandalf and the two hobbits from The Shire who had saved them all...

He had known Bilbo, of course, for some time; they had respected each other, the hobbit knowing better than to ask for the tale of the Balrog first-hand, Glorfindel gladly answering any other questions he might have had in recompense for his gentle restraint.

Now, as he stood at the bows of the ship, Glorfindel found he was not alone; the old hobbit was beside him.

‘Well, there’s nothing like a sea voyage for the constitution after all!’ he said. ‘Do you know, I feel years younger!’

‘I am glad to hear it, Master Bilbo. Here in Valinor I am sure you will find Elvish poetry and song enough even for your appetite.’

‘Thank you, my dear fellow. But, I must ask, don’t you know... just why did you sail with us? I rather thought you might stay and keep an eye on the twins...’

‘It was time, I thought it was time...’

But had it been the right choice after all?

He had tried not to admit it, even to himself, but Glorfindel had spent most of the voyage looking back when everyone else was looking forward... yes, his forever-love was waiting for him in Valinor... but Glorfindel had left someone behind.

Triwathon.

Even though they had agreed what they had could never be any more than a brief affair, could not exist outside beyond the bounds of Middle Earth, although they had parted as friends Glorfindel had found himself, more and more, wondering if that had been the right decision. Oh, Triwathon was young, had a glowing and glittering future ahead of him... and a loyal friend to love him, if only Triwathon would let him... but Glorfindel had never been able to shake the sense of unfinished business between them.

So when Elrond had announced his intention to sail, even though it had only been a couple of years since Glorfindel and Triwathon had said their goodbyes, the seneschal of Imladris had packed up his things without a fuss and had added his name to the list. It would be easier to leave Triwathon behind as he moved towards the future with Ecthelion.

Or so he’d thought...

The boat docked, voices calling, a hustle and a bustle brought Glorfindel back to the now, the present place and time.

And he wished he wasn’t there.

He was one of the last off the boat, hanging back almost to the last until he no longer could delay, and even then he lingered at the foot of the gangplank. 

Over on the shore, a party was already underway, Elrond at the centre of it, not entirely happily as the reunion with his formerly-ill wife appeared to be rapidly disintegrating into shrill recriminations...

‘Glorfindel, darling!’

The voice was lazy, languid, elegant and clear and once, Glorfindel would have given anything to hear it caress his name again in such a fashion... with a sigh, he lifted and hand and looked towards the shore where Ecthelion, dark haired and beautiful in indigo silk, was waiting with a smile.

He was not alone.

At his side, a blond Galadhrim stood with his arm apparently around Ecthelion’s waist, haughty and pouting as the dark haired Lord of the Fountains of Gondolin made his way to the jetty, pulling him along.

‘Ah, Glorfindel, my beloved, I thought you would never sail!’ Ecthelion said in a drawl, lifting a strand of white blond hair from the head of the elf at his side. ‘Do you know Rúmil, my dear? Isn’t he gorgeous?’

Glorfindel faltered to a halt, the smile on his face, already forced, fading.

‘Ecthelion?’ he asked.

‘Yes, dearest... Rúmil and I became friends when he arrived somewhat precipitously in the Halls of our old friend Mandos... took him under my wing and, well, my love, I thought...’

‘I thought you... we... I...’

‘Yes, I know, I told you if you needed someone, our vows weren’t binding on the other side of the seas. Well, I was on the other side of the seas too, you know. I was lonely, I was pining, too. And so Rúmil and I... I thought I would have to give him up when you arrived, but then I thought, he is so lovely... imagine your hair and his mingling, how gorgeous it would look...’

‘You’d better imagine it for yourself, Ecthelion, because I don’t think you’re ever likely to see it happen! I don’t know what you’re thinking, but...’

‘Do you not? I was thinking, you, and me, and lovely Rúmil here... a modern arrangement, why not?’

‘Why not? Because you and I are fëa-mates, that’s why not! We took vows, that’s why not...!’

Because Glorfindel had turned his back on the bravest, kindest, best ellon in all of Middle Earth to come here before he had been ready to give him up, that was why not...

‘Oh, vows...! Well, I got to thinking, perhaps we weren’t really meant to be forever after all... and so I had us released...’

‘You... what...?’

Ecthelion shrugged.

‘So we could take them again in the spirit of renewal, and with Rúmil, too; the place is positively heaving with Valar, all happy to clarify Eru’s plans for us and they were only too happy to release us from our vows, made in the days when the world, and we, were young. Are you coming home, darling, or what?’

‘Yes,’ Glorfindel said. ‘Yes, if this boat works both ways, I’m going home. Right now.’

And with that he turned on his heel and stalked back onto the ship.

*

Cirdan looked up from where he’d been checking the lines.

‘Glorfindel?’

‘Cirdan, how long before we can set off back for Middle Earth?’

‘We cannot possibly...’

‘This ship goes east as well as west, yes? That’s how the ocean works, we can sail back, I’ve done it before... I have to, Cirdan, I’ve made a dreadful mistake... no, two dreadful mistakes...’

‘If you will bear with me, my lord, I was going to say we cannot possibly go before we are provisioned... and there are other passengers for the return trip who will be joining us. But it will not be quite yet; we have to lay over for three weeks...

‘Three weeks! Cirdan, I need to go now!’

‘You are welcome to try to swim, my old friend, but we will pass you on the way. You see, sailing back is not as easy as sailing here; we must have sails made by Vairë and her maidens if we are to sail into the sunrise instead of the sunset and they are not yet made. So, you are welcome to your old berth, my lord, if you want it. Or you could go ashore, if you wished...’

Glorfindel looked out to where Ecthelion was now walking away from the ship, his arm around the light-haired Galadhrim.

‘Is there anything I can help with around the ship?’ he asked.

Cirdan smiled, his eyes crinkling at the edges.

‘Just stow your gear and keep out of the way,’ he said. ‘Otherwise, Elrond might come looking for you.’

But it was Gandalf came looking for him, three weeks later as night fell and the stars sprang out like gemstones in the obsidian sky.

‘Glorfindel of Gondolin, what are you doing lurking in your cabin still? It’s a glorious night and you should not be moping!’

‘I’m not moping,’ Glorfindel said, looking up from the remnants of a once-blue towel he’d been stroking between his long, strong fingers. ‘I’m pining; it’s different.’

Taking that for an invitation, the wizard pushed open the door and ducked into the cabin.

‘It’s true, what Cirdan tells me, your heart is set on going back?’

Glorfindel nodded.

‘Unfinished business,’ he said. ‘Don’t try to persuade me to stay.’

‘Wouldn’t dream of it, my dear fellow; in fact, I would come with you if I could. Three weeks of being a party to marital strife between Elrond and Celebrian is quite enough for me, I assure you! But my time in Middle Earth is over. Yours, it would seem, is not... come up on deck. You will want to meet your fellow passengers.’

‘Are you sure about that?’

Gandalf chortled disconcertingly and led the way back up to the deck in time to see a group of about a dozen mounted riders and a pack of hounds flowing up the gangplank. The lead rider dismounted, the movement making him glint and shine as he walked towards the Balrog-slayer and the wizard.

‘My lord Laurefindil, we are to be shipmates, it seems. Master Olórin, you and I, we are not...’

‘Ah, if only, my lord Oromë, if only...’

‘We thank you for the honour of your escort,’ Oromë said. ‘And we hope you enjoy your time in Valinor; we will look for you, on our return, and so farewell, Olórin...’

Gandalf nodded, bristling quietly, and stepped up to pat Glorfindel on the shoulder.

‘Good luck, my dear fellow,’ he said. ‘Don’t be too upset about Ecthelion, will you? I’m sure he never meant to hurt your feelings...’

‘And friend Olórin, good night to you,’ Oromë said. ‘I will see our Laurefindil comes to no harm.’

Glorfindel waited for Gandalf to grumble his way off the ship and out of earshot before turning to the Lord of the Hunt.

‘Promise?’

‘Indeed, I promise, Laurefindil. Now, come with me and we will share a drink together, one that will see you sleep so sound we will be halfway across the seas before you wake...’

‘As good as that sounds, my lord, I doubt I will be good and proper company tonight...’

‘Nonsense. Besides, we need to discuss strategy...’

‘My lord?’

Oromë slung his arm companionably around Glorfindel’s shoulder and led him off towards the best cabin on the ship.

‘Yes; the evil of the Ring is gone from Middle Earth, but its poison lives on, here and there. I am bringing my host to make a sweep of the northern forests where I understand they may have need of such minor help as we might give...’

‘The...? Eryn Lasgalen? Triwathon, my friend Triwathon...?’

‘Ah. Now you are interested... well, that is where you’re headed, isn’t it? And it will be so much swifter for you to ride with my host than to bumble along on your own from the Havens; you’d be hard pressed to get there for the New Year by yourself whereas if you stay with me, we will be there before Yule...’

*

The tide ebbed, the tide flowed. As it reached towards its highest point, two figures arrived to stand amongst the sand dunes and watch as the ship made its final preparations, as the voices of the crew called out softly into the dregs of the night. The taller figure had long and flowing hair, darker than the night; the other was hooded over pale blond braids.

A sigh from the dark haired ellon; the other stroked his arm in a gesture of comfort, perhaps of friendship.

‘He will be gone in an hour, Rúmil. Thank you for this; it was true friendship to allow me to speak so in front of him...’

‘You are welcome, Ecthelion. It is small enough service...’

‘Ai, you say that now, but if Glorfindel had agreed...’ Ecthelion sighed. ‘Not that he would have done; it was kindest, though, to set him free, even if it stings for a little while. And I have you, now... I wonder how many there are who thought they had found their forever loves only to discover they weren’t quite right...?’

‘At least you were in a position to do something about it for both of you.’

‘No... for all of us. That is the thing, when one is friends with Námo, he does like to gossip... poor Glorfindel, in love with a Silvan!’

Rúmil lifted his head to stare down his nose at Ecthelion.

‘Because neither you nor he could ever hope to keep up with a wood-elf, could you?’

‘Perhaps not, my dear, but speaking for myself, I’m having tremendous fun trying... Ah, there we go; the lines have been cast off! Farewell, Glorfindel, my erstwhile love and my forever friend! Make sure you enjoy your Silvan, or I will be properly cross...’

*

Secure in Oromë’s cabin, a glass of something potent in his hand, unaware that Ecthelion was watching him go with a tear in his eye, Glorfindel felt the motion of the ship as it began its journey back to Middle Earth and lifted his head.

‘We’re off, I think! How long, my lord, to Lindon?’

‘Perhaps fourteen or sixteen days.’

‘As little as that? It was more than a score of days west...’

‘Of course; the journey home is always swifter... and then we will ride like the wind for Eryn Lasgalen; I do hope you packed your sword.’


	2. Middle Earth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Glorfindel arrives back in Middle Earth. Again.

The voyage back, even though it went faster than the outward journey, wasn’t fast enough for Glorfindel. Triwathon! To see him again, to be with him, to say; I am free, I am no longer bound...

But what of Triwathon?

True, it was only a couple of years since they’d parted, and letters had passed between them; the gift of towels at Yule... but Parvon, the chief advisor to the New Palace where Triwathon commanded the garrison, he had made no bones of his love for Triwathon, too; there was a chance, a slight one, true, that Parvon had been there to comfort Triwathon when he was alone at night, when the memories of old battles weighed darkly on his fëa...

Glorfindel would not begrudge Triwathon any comfort, of course not, but he hoped, ah, how he hoped his beautiful-fëa’d friend had waited... that he hadn’t succumbed to Parvon’s patience...

They landed in a grey storm, cold, half way through a bitter storm, almost as if the weather was bent on keeping them at sea, but Oromë laughed when Glorfindel said as much.

‘No, this is but the last breath of evil blowing itself away. But we have a long ride ahead of us, Laurefindil; I hope the swift steed I brought along for your use is not too much for you!’

They scudded across the lands to the north of The Shire like a shriek on the wind, over Lake Evendim and passing to the north of Imladris to cross the Hithaglaer just south of the Ettenmoors a scant twelve days after they’d landed in Lindon. There, on the east of the Langflood and in sight of the edge of Eryn Lasgalen, Oromë called them together around the camp fire.

‘Tomorrow we will ride hard to meet whatever the day brings. Tonight we need to rest as hard as we ride.’

Oromë stopped behind Glorfindel and laid his hands on the golden head.

‘Especially you, Laurefindil.’ He stroked the honey bright hair back from the Balrog-slayer’s face and with a sigh Glorfindel’s eyes fluttered open, the nictitating membranes engaging as he dropped into unexpectedly swift reverie. ‘Tomorrow will be the most important day of your new life, if you did but know it.’

*

‘Narunir, report!’

‘Commander Triwathon, sir, Captain Celeguel is on her way back with more survivors. Captain Amathel has got her group underground and wants to run interference...’

‘Tell Amathel she needs to stay to hold the gate for Celeguel. And bolster her; she’ll listen to you.’

‘Sir.’

The ellon ran off to follow orders and Triwathon shook his head to clear it.

‘Here.’ Parvon pressed a beaker into his hand. ‘One of Maereth’s herbal things, she says it’s good for you. At least it’s hot.’

‘My thanks, Parvon.’ Triwathon sighed, sipped at the brew. It didn’t taste half as bad as he’d expected. ‘Celeguel’s not going to make it in without support; she’s bringing injured and elflings...’

‘Captains Thiriston and Canadion are back; they’ve dealt with the last of their orcs and now they’re offering their services elsewhere...’

‘That’s wonderful news; send them to reinforce Celeguel... I’ll give them ten minutes and then head through the front gate; I’ll distract the dragon while they get away.’

‘You can’t, Triwathon! Not alone!’

‘It’s no good throwing warriors at it, Parvon; they’ll just die and we need them if more orcs or wargs come down from the hills. No, this is my job; I’ve dealt with dragons before.’

‘But this one has two heads!’

Triwathon grinned. Now the orcs were gone, no longer there to harry any foray against the dragon, he felt suddenly more hopeful.

‘And I have two swords, your point?’

*

It was but a week away from Yule and they’d been pinned down for three days by orcs and the dragon, though whether working in concert, or if the orc attack was simply opportunistic, Triwathon didn’t know. But however it might be, the dragon had flamed through the newly-established settlements half a mile from the New Palace. Although the warning bells had rung, it had been too late to prevent the conflagration of the talain towns as the dragon drove people from their homes to snap and feast at its leisure. Those who had escaped into the forest had had to keep fleeing, away from the shelter of the New Palace and, of course, it was then that the orcs attacked, tying up half Triwathon’s forces just when he needed to have warriors to send to protect the fleeing townsfolk. The dragon, unable to get through the denser forest, had turned back towards the palace and its the garrison now, the smell of the elves and their horses enticement enough to keep it there in hope of prey and sport.

But of the warriors he had been able to send out, many had returned with refugees, skirting the palace sometimes miles out of their way through scorched earth and charcoal forests, arriving at the back doors as black and sooted as the trees themselves. Each group brought word of other survivors, and so other rescue teams went out...

They could hold out for a little while, weeks, months, perhaps – but with winter as well as orcs and a dragon at the gates, and injured now amongst them... and dead, sweet Eru, how many names would they soon have to remind themselves not to say? It was a terrible thing.

At least the king was from home. Down at the Old Palace for the season before going on to Ithilien to see how his son fared, he was safe from this, at least.

Triwathon set down the cup, checked his weapons, his armour, felt in his tunic for the bright blue stone he kept for luck, the one Glorfindel had given him long ago on their first Yule... he had sailed, at last, so the latest message from Imladris had said, and so now Triwathon felt alone for the first time since he had lost his friend and lover to a different dragon more than two centuries ago.

And it didn’t really seem to matter if Triwathon survived this encounter or not, as long as the dragon didn’t.

‘I’m ready, Parvon. If... if you should find you need an interim commander, I suggest Thiriston Cut-Face.’

‘Agreed, Commander, but we won’t need him. We have you.’

‘I’m going to the gates now. Make sure everyone else helps get Celeguel home with her refugees.’

Parvon hurried off to pass on the message, returning swiftly with his bow and quiver at his back.

‘I’m coming with you, Commander.’

‘No, you’re not.’

‘I am,’ Parvon said. ‘You know how I feel about you; I can’t let you stand there alone.’

Triwathon sighed. He didn’t have time for this, but he made time, for Parvon, for his unstinting, unselfish support.

‘Yes, I know how you feel. And you know I respect and honour you for the dignity with which you live. I am sorry I could not return your affection. You deserve so much.’

‘You have given me all you could, Commander. I would rather have your friendship than your pity any day. But I am coming with you.’

Triwathon shrugged and nodded.

‘Of course you are,’ he said.

*

There was a wide glade in front of the gates, caused by old flame during the Battle Under the Trees years ago, and the forest had yet to recover. Here the dragon had space to settle its bulk, lifting its long necks to peer through and around the scant cover, for the trees around had been battered by its flame and were nothing more than charcoal sticks amongst which the usual green and brown garb of the wood elves stood out more clearly than usual. From here, the dragon could guard the front entrance to the New Palace and keep sight of any attempting to get through to the back ways in, and it was this that Triwathon now needed to prevent, allowing Celeguel time to get her charges under cover.

There was a watch point above the gates, and it was here that Triwathon stationed himself, Parvon at his side, a small ledge of rock running above the gates and accessed from within the stronghold by a narrow stair.

As they emerged, the dragon was lifted up, both heads peering over, the sinuous necks twining and twisting together and the undersides of its twin throats clearly seen.

Out of reach of Triwathon’s blades, though. He nodded to Parvon who unslung his bow and nocked an arrow as the Commander did the same. Together they aimed for the underside of the jaws; at best, a good shot might pierce through and keep the jaws shut; if nothing else, it would get the dragon’s attention.

They fired simultaneously as the dragon moved its heads; Triwathon’s arrow went wide but Parvon’s shot hit home with some success, causing the other head to scream its rage as the arrow struck through skin, and maw, and lodged in the beast’s mouth. It flailed and flamed, lashing its head and bringing one neck into range of Triwathon’s sword; he slashed fiercely with both swords and managed to cleave the skin, at least. No real damage done, however, and they both leapt back into the relative cover of the interior.

One head sought them, huffing in a breath preparing to flame and Triwathon dashed forward to bury one of his swords into a nostril, causing the beast to scream and retract its head hastily.

Parvon laughed nervously, Triwathon grinning at him.

‘Ai, I do believe we have got its attention, at least!’

‘True, Commander...’ 

Parvon nocked another arrow and sidled along the wall. Outside, the heads were vying for position, eye after eye pressed close to peer into the dark... he loosed his shot, hitting the restless eyeball clear and hard, the arrow putting out the light of the eye and causing the dragon to scream and turn away.

‘Well done!’ Triwathon shouted, and ran to the edge to follow up with a leap that took him onto the dragon’s nose.

‘Commander, what are you doing?’

‘Get back, Parvon, it’s going to flame...’

A jet of fire from under Triwathon’s feet as he clung to the beast’s face, working his way up towards the eye. The dragon shook its head, brought the other close to snap at the annoyance on its other snout; Triwathon ducked, stabbed clean through the eye of this as yet uninjured head, and the length of the sword going through, and through, and into the brain, destroying half the beast’s sentience and causing the head to flop and drag the other off-kilter. Now struggling for balance, Triwathon was vaguely aware of cries in the forest, the sound of horns blowing loud and clear, and with a shout he drove his blades down through the top of the dragon’s skull at the weak point where the nasal cavities met, and into the second brain, destroying it utterly as the beast shrieked and convulsed and he found himself flung through the air in a trajectory that promised him pain on landing...

*

The horns rang out and the hounds flowed like shadows amongst the feet of the horses as they passed through, over, between the trees. Oromë called back in a voice that carried clear across his host.

‘They are beset. They have beaten back one orc-horde; another comes at them now and they do not yet realise. Release the hounds. Malgelir, ward the region, gather and nurture the survivors. The rest of you, to your duties. Laurefindil, ride with me now.’

The Vala reached out and gripped Glorfindel tightly by the shoulder, pulling him across to sit before him on the mighty horse; Glorfindel’s own mount fell back.

‘Maleglir will use your steed for any injured he finds. We ride for the gate. Do not fear; I will not let you fall.’

But that wasn’t what Glorfindel was afraid of; instead, the thought of Triwathon beset by orcs filled him with dread. Suddenly, his planned greeting: ‘Hello, darling, did you miss me?’ seemed a little inappropriate.

‘Orcs, Lord?’

‘And probably wargs after them. But we’re going to make sure the dragon can’t do more damage.’

‘Dragon? My Triwathon is facing a dragon?’

‘But not alone. He’s been very brave.’

Around them, smoke and burning. The ruined forest smouldered past as they drew near the New Palace, and Oromë slowed their pace to something approaching normal. He beckoned behind him as they arrived at the edge of the ruined glade.

‘Well, it looks as if the dragon is dealt with, at least. But I think we need a healer here...’

*

A hand was patting Triwathon’s face gently, a voice pleading over his head with someone... it took him a moment to realise it was saying his name, a longed-for voice, begging him to wake up, to look at him, at his iphant...

‘Glorfindel?’

The word came out garbled, but he was lifted and hugged and held as his senses came back and he breathed the familiar scent of his Balrog-slayer deeply in... surely this was wrong, a dream? Glorfindel had sailed... or... or had Triwathon died and was with Mandos? But Glorfindel would not be there, too...

‘Yes, yes, it’s me, you precious, beloved fëa, it’s me, your iphant, come back to you... I don’t think you’re hurt much, bit stunned and bruised... you killed the dragon, you did, my hero, everyone’s hero...’

‘My lord, on the ledge, there is another. He needs help.’

‘Triwathon? Who was with you?’ Glorfindel asked softly, urgently. ‘Tell me?’

Triwathon blinked, tried to focus. His head ached, his shoulder and hip, but he was alive, he was, and Glorfindel, beyond hope, was alive with him. Up on the ledge, he remembered, he had been there... and jumped for the dragon... and it had... had flamed...

‘Parvon,’ he gasped out, struggling to sit up, to rise. ‘Parvon was there, he... he... behind me, when the flame... I must go to him...’

‘Let me help you,’ Glorfindel said, supporting Triwathon across to the stair cut into the rock inside the gates and leading to the ledge. 

Oromë was already there, sitting cross-legged next to a battered and burned form lying on the rocky ground. He looked up and shook his head.

‘I have taken the pain from him,’ he said. ‘My brother Námo will be here soon, and we all know what that means... the ellon asks for Triwathon.’

‘Me, I’m Triwathon.’ He dropped to his knees, ignoring the pooled blood beneath him as he lifted Parvon’s head gently to rest in his lap. ‘We did it, my friend. The dragon is dead, and we are saved; Lord Oromë himself rode to our aid...’

Parvon tried to lift his hand, his left hand, and Triwathon grasped it gently. His friend’s right side seemed badly burned, his flesh raw red and bitter black, but what was left of his face smiled.

‘Dead dragon?’

‘Very dead dragon, my friend. Your arrows harmed it enough so I could finish it off. We did it; without you, I doubt I could have prevailed.’

A dark shadow behind Triwathon, a change of air, but Glorfindel raised up his head and bowed.

‘He cannot see me yet,’ a soft voice said. ‘But you, who have met me before...’

Triwathon twisted round, bowed his head.

‘My lord Námo,’ he said. ‘Must you have this one? He is my good friend, and...’

‘I am not here for the dragon, penneth!’ Namo chided. ‘Now, if I left him with you, he will heal scarred and twisted. He has lived for so long, grateful for your respect, trying to avoid your pity... how would he feel, living on in constant pain and knowing you never would, never could love him? Let me take him, let me care for him for you.’

‘Lord, I would not deny him peace...’ Triwathon sighed, realised – really saw and recognised – Glorfindel was there. ‘Ai, he will have no peace, I think, not with me now...’

‘We will give you a moment alone. He does not have long, but he does not suffer.’

Triwathon nodded and waited a moment.

‘Parvon?’ he began. ‘I do not know how to thank you for your support, your friendship...’

‘Love you, Triwathon. Can’t remember when I didn’t. Waited... I would have waited forever...’

‘I know. But I can’t love you back, Parvon. I would have, if I could have, you know this. All... all I can do is honour you, my friend.’

‘Triwathon...’ 

The voice drifted away to a breath. Parvon’s grip on his hand released and Námo came forward to stoop over the body and lift Parvon’s fëa free, a brightly glowing shape with patches of darker shade.

‘He lived the best life he could, he loved you, he will never regret loving you and perhaps, in time, he will find another sweetheart.’ Námo smiled and winked disconcertingly. ‘Ecthelion did.’

‘What...? Lord...? Take good care of him, he...’

‘He was your friend.’ Námo nodded. ‘I know, I know. And Glorfindel is my friend, take care of him for me, if you will.’

‘We will be in your forests, youngling,’ Oromë said. ‘You have other enemies coming, but we will guard your settlements, so do not fear. Take care of your dead, and your living. Námo has taken all he has come for today, you will lose no more through the night.’

The Valar left, but Triwathon didn’t see them go; his control had left him and he was weeping over the corpse of his friend.

Glorfindel gave him a few moments’ privacy before he could no longer bear such raw grief without trying to do something. He dropped to the ground next to Triwathon and his dead friend and remembered what he knew of Silvan tradition; it was all right to say the name before their burial rites, but not after, except on the night of the names, but...

‘I remember Parvon,’ he said. ‘He was loyal, and true, and brave, and he loved you. Can’t fault his taste, or his steadfastness. He was a good friend, and an excellent advisor. He’ll be missed.’

‘He... never let his feelings get in the way of friendship. Wouldn’t let me face the dragon alone, he... insisted... a good friend. My good friend, I... Glorfindel? Can it really be you?’

‘I hope so.’ 

Triwathon gently laid Parvon’s head on the ground, and turned towards the Balrog-slayer. 

‘Not as much as I do,’ he said, and leaned in to Glorfindel’s outstretched arms.

Glorfindel smiled over the huge lump in his throat as he filled himself up with Triwathon’s physical presence.

‘Hello, darling,’ he said. ‘Did you miss me?’


	3. After the Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the beleagured Silvans take stock and Triwathon has chance to be properly reunited with Glorfindel.

It was wonderful to have Triwathon back in his arms again; it felt almost as if he’d never been gone, and yet was too long away... and the circumstances, Glorfindel had to admit, could be better... for Triwathon was weeping again, and clinging, and he stroked the dark glory of his hair and soothed him with his voice and was just grateful to Oromë for getting him there in time...

After what felt like an age, Triwathon steadied himself and Glorfindel carefully relaxed his hold.

‘Thank you, Laurefindil... I do not understand how you are here, when Arveldir wrote that you had decided to sail with Elrond... but I do not care, because you are here, and you brought reinforcements... but what happened?’

‘It’s a long story... well, no, it isn’t. I... I missed you. Too much, and so I sailed. It seemed to make sense at the time, but I spent all the voyage wishing I hadn’t, knowing I couldn’t go back. And then when we arrived...’ No. Glorfindel balked at admitting Ecthelion had found someone younger, prettier, blonder, and had wanted them all to settle together; it was too shameful... ‘Well, let’s just say Ecthelion isn’t stupid, he released us from our vows without my knowledge...’

‘You got all the way to Valinor? And came back again?’

Glorfindel nodded. ‘Lord Oromë had a little trip planned and brought me with him. Good job too, or I’d be here too late... So what’s been happening here?’

‘It’s been rough, lately. The last of the orcs out of the mountains, we thought it was calming down. The king went to the old palace to share the Night of the Names with the folk there – I’m glad he did – and three days ago the dragon came. We’ve lost people in the talain villages, perhaps a dozen or more, and there are elflings without parents now. Thiriston – you know him, big and strong and fierce as you like – he’s been in tears because there are elflings orphaned by a dragon... he said, no more, and they’ve been helping, he and Canadion – they only came to visit, went to the old palace to see their kin and decided they hadn’t really liked Ithilien after all, so came on up here to beg for a job. I was more than happy to agree, I...’

Triwathon was babbling, almost, the words pouring out of him in a reaction to the stress and sorrow behind him. Glorfindel kept a loose arm around him, and nodded here and there in the story.

‘...then orcs, just when we were trying to get people under cover, made the job twice as hard... listen to those horns blow! So that was Lord Oromë? And he came to help us?’

Glorfindel nodded.

‘I am so very grateful! As will everyone be, when they know... I will be looked for, Glorfindel, as soon as Celeguel gets her refugees under cover... and we must bring Parvon to where we can honour him and care for him...’

‘Would he mind if I carried him, do you think? I know you took a bit of a bump, you’re ignoring it, but still...’

‘I think he’d be grateful that you would do that for him.’

Glorfindel nodded and removed his cloak to gently swaddle the dead advisor; Parvon’s body was in a pretty bad state and he didn’t want the sight to upset anyone they might pass. Nor did he want to accidentally leave any bits behind... He lifted the bundle with respectful care, holding it close.

‘Show me the way, Commander?’

He didn’t want to say that, Commander, to call Triwathon by his title. He wanted to call him darling, sweetheart, Honey-Beer... but his beloved friend was on the edge of physical and emotional disaster and the only way to keep him together that Glorfindel could think of was to remind him of his duties. It seemed to work; Triwathon got to his feet with a sigh and straightened his shoulders courageously.

‘We’d best take him to the Healers Hall; Maereth has set up a Silent Room for our honoured dead nearby. Follow me.’

*

The Healers Hall wasn’t a large place; it had been designed for a small population in time of comparative peace, and so its entrance hall, usually empty but for a desk, was now full of beds brought in from other rooms, pallets along the walls. Not all were full, and healer Maereth and her assistant were moving amongst the beds giving what help they could. Glorfindel took one look and stepped back out of sight; the injured living would not want to be reminded of the dead.

Triwathon caught the attention of one of the healers, who spoke to Maereth. With a nod, she smiled at the elleth she’d been attending, and came across.

‘We have another for your Silent Room, I’m afraid...’

‘I am sorry to hear it, Commander. Might I ask...?’

‘Parvon.’ Triwathon closed his mouth after the word, shaking his head. 

Maereth touched his shoulder gently. ‘It’s this way,’ she said, heading back out into the corridor and leading the way to a room off to the right. She opened the door and allowed Glorfindel to carry his burden inside, following and showing him where to set the dead advisor down. ‘There is all you need here to care for him, if you wish. Or I can ask one of the attendants...’

‘No, I’ll help Triwathon,’ Glorfindel said. ‘And afterwards, if you need any help with your injured...?’

Maereth nodded. ‘That’s kind of you. I have two assistants, more than two score injured and they are still coming...’

‘Shouldn’t be too many more, Mae,’ Triwathon said, trying not to let his voice sound weary and heavy. ‘Glorfindel brought reinforcements, the dragon is dead, once Celeguel gets her people in...’

Maereth nodded, accepting the hope but not quite believing it yet.

‘I must get back. Triwathon, I am so sorry, he was... Parvon was nice.’

Triwathon nodded and brought himself back to the matter in hand. There were a dozen or so tables in the room, most of them occupied and he shook his head as he recognised first one, then another individual.

‘I didn’t know she had died, or him... this is a bad day for us, Glorfindel, and a worse one for their families...’

‘What do we do for them, Triwathon? For your honoured dead, I mean.’

‘We wash them and place them comfortably... he is so burned, my poor friend, I can’t see how...’

‘There are others, badly burned. They seem to be simply covered with a cloth...’

‘Yes. We lay our dead to rest amongst the roots of the trees, wrapped lightly but unclothed. We’ll need to cut his garments away, I think...’

‘I’ll willingly help, of course, but isn’t that something the family would do?’

Triwathon held his breath for a moment before releasing it.

‘Mostly, we who work in the New Palace have no kin left; they have died, or sailed. The families dwell in talain outside. But I will be proud to honour Parvon in this way.’

‘If you think he would not object to me helping...’

‘To be honoured by the Balrog-slayer? He would be pleased.’

There were washing cloths, and a water pump over a stone basin so they were able to clean Parvon of the worst of the blood and dirt, freeing him from his clothing. Triwathon washed his hair with a gentle intimacy that would have made Glorfindel wince, had he not known they had only been friends.

‘I can’t do much for the left side of his face; so much of his hair has gone...’

‘If it will cause distress, cover him, perhaps?’

Triwathon nodded.

‘He was never vain, but to be so... so damaged...’

They did what they could, cutting away the last shreds of fabric and wrapping the cloth so that it formed a hood, hiding the burned hair and much of the injury to Parvon’s face. Triwathon was crying again, but Glorfindel pretended not to notice, not while his dear one was trying to carry on through his weeping. 

How long would it be, he wondered, until he could hold him, as he had longed to hold him ever since they last parted? Not just a hug of comfort that could be seen in public, but as they used to lie, twined together in love and need?

Glorfindel sighed softly. However long it would be, he would wait.

Triwathon drew in a huge, shuddery breath and squared his shoulders.

‘Thank you, Glorfindel,’ he said, the use of that name, and not Laurefindil, or hir-nin, iphant-nin, showed he was speaking as Commander Triwathon again, doing his duty to the fallen. ‘I will be needed but... but would you walk with me, while I see who else has been lain here?’

‘Of course, Commander.’

Triwathon recognised everybody and told Glorfindel their names, their history. Most of the dead were simply Silvans who had wanted to live in the forest, and who had not been here more than a few years.

‘It is a tragedy,’ Triwathon said. ‘For the talain towns were full of families; there will be more Children of the Forest after this, and they will need special care.’

There were three warriors, too, all slain by orc arrows or with the marks of the dark blades on their bodies.

‘Quicker than fire, and less painful,’ Glorfindel said. ‘Take it from one who knows, Commander; your warriors were quickly free.’

Triwathon nodded.

‘I knew them all well, of course. This one, she has a sweetheart... these two were vowed to each other. Together in the Halls of Mandos, at least... I... I often wonder, what it is like there...’

‘When you’ve time, later, I’ll tell you. But for now... well, it’s not such a bad place.’

Triwathon nodded, and turned towards the door. He paused on the way to lean over Parvon’s remains and placed a small kiss on his forehead.

‘Our king would thank you, were he here, Parvon, for your service. But you will have to make do with me. I couldn’t have saved us – not alone. Not without you, my friend. Rest now; we’ll come for you when it’s time.’

Outside, he tried to smile as he shrugged.

‘I know – I told him that before he died, and I know, he’s gone with Námo, I saw Námo come for him. But... at the same time, he’s still here. It’s a Silvan thing.’

Glorfindel nodded. ‘A Silvan thing. Yes, I see. Where now, Commander?’

‘I appreciate you calling me that,’ Triwathon said. ‘It reminds me that people rely on me, it strengthens me, but... I remember when you called me other things...’

‘I’m very glad to hear it; I was beginning to think I’d sailed back all this way just to be a hero again.’

Triwathon smiled with something like relief in his eyes and stroked Glorfindel’s arm. 

‘Later,’ he said. ‘If this day ever ends, sit with me after supper. I need something to look forward to.’

‘I think we both do. Where now?’

‘To the Palace Office; it’s where P... where the advisors work; I keep a desk there too, and we’ve been using it as centre of operations while we were under attack.’

Glorfindel followed Triwathon along the corridor. Ahead, a door opened and a harassed-looking ellon came out, still talking to someone inside.

‘Well, if you see either of them, I’m going to see Celeguel now and...’ He broke off and hurried towards Triwathon and his companion. ‘Commander, thank the Valar I’ve found you! There are reports of orcs, and horns, and hounds baying and Celeguel is back and only Parvon can give permission to open the strongroom for the gemstones but...’

‘Feren, we have just come from Parvon’s side. He is in the Silent Room.’

‘Who is he attending? Shall I help him, or...?’

‘No, Feren,’ Triwathon’s voice was harder now. ‘I am sorry. Parvon is dead.’

‘What...? But... what are we going to do about the strongroom?’

‘You’re in charge of the keys and now, and the Palace Office... the best, brightest diamond in the strongroom, that is for Parvon.’

‘Triwathon, I... how will we bear it?’

‘We will manage, or else all his training will have been in vain, will it not? Celeguel is back, you said?’

‘And someone very strange is following her on the trail...’

*

‘Commander.’ Celeguel delivered her report as if only the formality of it kept her on her feet; she was scorched and battered and bruised, but she had brought in nigh on a score of survivors, adults and elflings, all injured to some degree or other. ‘I have news, too, of others who... are not coming in. And behind me, in the forest, a strange individual who was intent on searching where I had not been able to go... forgive me, sir, but is that Lord Glorfindel?’

‘Yes, Celeguel, we are fortunate indeed; he rode in with reinforcements.’

‘That is most excellent news! Well met, my lord!’

‘Captain. And the fellow you saw on the trail... seemed to glow a little, at the edges, perhaps?’

‘I thought it was overtiredness, sir... but he did, indeed...’

‘Melaglir. One of Oromë’s Maia friends...’

‘Save us!’ Celeguel muttered.

‘They have, they have indeed, Captain,’ Triwathon said. ‘Lord Oromë’s host is guarding our boundaries tonight; we can gather our injured and lick our wounds in peace for a few hours. The dragon is dead... and so is our chief advisor...’

‘That is a pity! He will be missed.’

‘I’ll speak more of it later. We need to get your injured taken care of; the wounded have spilled out into the outer room of the Healers Hall so if there is somewhere else to keep the little ones...’

‘They are all hurt!’

Glorfindel intervened.

‘I can heal elflings as well as elves,’ he said. ‘If someone can bring me what I need... as long as Healer Maereth is informed...’

‘And I can help, sir,’ an elleth spoke up from the side of the chamber. ‘Faenith, my name. I have field training...’

‘Together we can do much, Faenith.’

‘I’ll leave you to it, Glorfindel.’ Triwathon said. ‘Celeguel, with me; I’ll have a private report from you now, I think, and then you can stand down for an hour or two. We’ll meet again in the dining hall later.’

There was an empty room, and Triwathon walked into it, closing the door after Celeguel.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.

‘I couldn’t... not in front of the little ones... six more dead, but... we cannot reclaim their bodies...’

‘Too badly burned?’

‘Eaten.’ She shuddered. ‘The dragon... the villagers report it blew flame with one head to draw people out, and caught them with the other. Then it... it ate them, mostly, and flamed the rest of the trees... Rusdir’s sister is lost.’

‘She had sons.’

‘Yes, both alive, only a little hurt. I gave them into Thiriston’s care, he and Canadion...’

Triwathon nodded. ‘Thiriston knows about dragons.’

‘They are willing to talk to as many of the elflings as they can, now the fighting is done... they said they would be in the school room...’

‘A good idea. See that Glorfindel knows where it is, to take the elflings when he’s treated them. Thank you, Celeguel – you did well today.’

Her smile was a grimace.

‘We did our best, Commander.’

*

He took her remark and nurtured it, so that when they gathered for the evening meal, and he had to address them, he could do so with certainty and hope amidst the sadness. Looking around the hall – no top table here, just rows of tables with forms in front, a long serving table at the side of the hall – he saw warriors and palace staff, refugees from the flets, walking wounded, adults and elflings and he had to find a way to address them all without upsetting the little ones or scaring the older elflings or causing more pain and grief. Dotted amongst the tables as if they were just ordinary people he recognised the glitter and glint of hidden light from Oromë’s host of Maiar, and the Vala himself was sitting next to Glorfindel where they made beautiful contrast with each other.

‘My friends,’ he began. ‘Honoured guests, welcome at the end of this long and terrible day. But know that we are safe tonight. The dragon is dead, the orcs slain, the forest no longer burns. That so many of us are here, and others tonight are being tended in the Healers Hall, is a matter for celebration. Quiet celebration, relief, perhaps. But we are here, and it could have been so much worse. We did our best – you did your best. Our king was not here; had he been, he would have attacked in most deadly manner and perhaps himself been injured, but we know he, and our prince, are safe. And we have guests, most high and welcome guests who brought us aid. We are very grateful, my lord Oromë.’

‘My host and I are pleased to have helped you, children. Of all my wood-elves, you are my favourites.’

‘But still, I thank you. And now, all, eat, and drink, and be easy. Tonight we are safe.’

Later, when the meal was done and people were starting to gather in little clusters, huddling away their fears and talking them out, Oromë came to where Triwathon had gone to sit with his captains and warriors.

‘What do you need, Commander?’ the Vala said. ‘We will be here yet awhile and any aid that we can offer...’

‘Thank you. I need swift messengers, more than anything. The Old Palace must hear of this, and... and our friend Captain Rusdir... there is sad news to take to him. He is in Imladris, and also there, Lord Arveldir who was the king’s chief advisor, he must know. And I think, also, they should be told that Glorfindel is back... that is, if he is staying, my lord?’

Oromë nodded. ‘He is staying. But there is a ship at the Havens; when I and my host return, any who wish to may come with us. However, tomorrow I will send out messengers; have what you wish to say written, and it will be taken to your friends.’

‘Even as far as Imladris?’

‘Even as far as Ithilien, since that is where your prince is, yes.’

*

It was near midnight before Triwathon had done talking and ordering and reassuring and could retire to his rooms, but when he set off for his rooms Glorfindel nodded to him across the hall and joined him.

In the silence of his chambers, Triwathon shut the door after the Balrog-slayer with a sigh and shot home the bolt.

‘Alone at last,’ he said.

‘They gave me a billet just along the row from you... it’s a bad time, I don’t expect...’

‘No? But I do, Laurefindil. After everything, to see you today and think, perhaps tonight I will not be alone with all this... if it’s too much...’

‘Of course it’s not,’ Glorfindel said softly. ‘Whatever you need, anything you need...’

‘I have something for you,’ Triwathon said, going to a trunk and lifting out a pile of blue fabric. ‘I have missed you so much, I had to do something and so... It’s not finished; it was going to be for Yule, but then Arveldir wrote you had sailed and I... did not have the heart. So, unfinished, but it will serve you.’  
He handed Glorfindel a loose package, the wrapping not tied but folded loosely over, and inside several rectangles of blue fabric, a border of yellow flowers on the edges of two of them, a third only partially completed, the loose yellow threads still attached.

‘Oh, Triwathon...’

Glorfindel stroked over the stitching, the unfinished flower, buried his face in the towel and sobbed.

Hearing the Balrog-slayer’s sorrow expressed seemed to release something for Triwathon; now, finally, he was able to reach out, to take Glorfindel in his arms and hold him close, offering comfort where he might not have been able to accept it.

‘Come, my dear iphant,’ he said, stroking the golden hair. ‘Come and lie down with me; I seem to remember you used to feel better after a Triwathon cuddle, would you like that?’

Glorfindel nodded, sniffed, held tight for a moment.

‘It sounds lovely,’ he said. ‘Worth sailing across the Sundering Seas twice for.’

*

Later, Triwathon kissed Glorfindel and didn’t protest when the golden-haired warrior slid from the bed.

‘I want to stay, penneth, I really do...’

‘I know. But, my beloved Laurefindil...’

‘But it’s one thing to talk through the night with you, and another to sleep in your bed. I’m sure nobody will begrudge you a bit of comfort, but there’s going to be someone, isn’t there?’

‘Yes. Someone who will say; Parvon is only just cold. Is there no respect? Is our commander really going to be thinking of our welfare, or will the return of his friend distract him...?’

‘So you understand, I don’t want to go...’

‘But you must. Once we have laid our lost ones to rest, and spoken our memories to their gemstones, once the Night of Names is upon us, then it will be different.’

‘But until then...’ Glorfindel sighed, kissed him again, and reached for his clothes. ‘Until then, I’ll go to my own billet.’

Triwathon dressed, kissed him, and passed him the finished towels.

‘I’ll work on the others if I can’t sleep. That way you know I’m thinking of you. Not that I ever stopped.’

‘Nor I you. See you at breakfast?’

‘In the dining hall, early.’


	4. Messengers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Maiar messengers set out, and Triwathon selects gemstones for the fallen...

Triwathon's breakfast was taken amidst a host of interruptions. He was used to it, almost; since the attack, every meal had been a way for people to find him, tell him what he needed to know.

Feren was there, too, filling the place Parvon had taken, trying his best.

Only he wasn't Parvon and his new status as most senior advisor wasn't sitting easily. He was hesitant and stammered out his reports, and Triwathon's patience only made him more miserable.

'Don't worry, you are telling me everything I need to know,' the commander said.

’But not coherently, I am afraid!'

'Never mind. It is difficult for all of us. We none of us expected this.'

'The Lord Oromë suggested the arrival of his messengers might cause undue alarm and that it might be wise to send representatives with the Maiar to Imladris and the Old Palace... I was going to offer myself, for I am no use here and a short repute from the names of the dead and the faces of their kin...’

'That's not true at all! You have been of great use, Feren. Of course you can go, if you feel it would help.'

'Who is going where?' Glorfindel asked, sliding into an empty place near, but not too near, Triwathon. 

'Messengers with the Maiar to Imladris and the king. Feren has volunteered.'

'That's a good idea. I'd suggest you go to Imladris, Feren; Arveldir is there, he would prefer the news from a friend, perhaps. I'd like to offer to take word to Thranduil, there would be too much fuss if I went to Rivendell... showing up just when they think they’ve got rid of me... they might want me to stay...'

Triwathon held Glorfindel's gaze for a moment. His heart was sinking already, and he wanted to protest the Balrog-slayer had only just got there... but perhaps it was for the best, the golden one was a distraction when Triwathon needed to focus.

'Thank you, Glorfindel,' he said instead. 'We sent a messenger after we were attacked, but whether he got through... Make sure you seek out Master Merenor. He will be concerned for his son Canadion's safety when he hears the news. Oh, and we have his grandson in our Palace Office, Faerveren – make sure he knows he is well, also.'

'Of course, Commander. The Maiar messengers wish to leave within the hour.'

'I've a letter almost finished in my office. Will you collect it in twenty minutes or so? I need to visit the Silent Room first, but after that, Parvon can show you where...'

Except he couldn't, because he was lying dead in the Silent Room. Triwathon ducked his head down, and Glorfindel covered the awkwardness as best he could.

'I can find your office, I think. Feren, if you’ve never ridden with the Host, don’t be surprised, the Maiar go more swiftly than we can, you’ll be there in no time. We made it from just east of the Langflood to here in just one long day. You should be back easily for the Night of the Names.'

'Thank you. I want... I need to tell Arveldir myself how things stand, ask him for advice, he will know what to do...'

‘If he offers to come back with you, say that he and Erestor will be most welcome,’ Triwathon said. ‘In fact, any who wish to will be welcome; I would think Rusdir will want to see his nephews...’

‘Such a shame for the little ones,’ Feren murmured. ‘For all the little ones... For everyone, really.’

‘Yes. But we’ve survived, thanks to our brave warriors and our friends,’ Triwathon said, trying to lift the mood. ‘Now we are no longer under direct attack, and there’s time for reflection, this is when we will feel it most, Feren. But have courage! Go and ready yourself for the ride.’

‘Thank you, Commander. I will hand over all my keys and duties to Faerveren. Not that we will be keeping to routine, of course.’

‘Don’t worry about the Palace Office, Feren; we’ll muddle through and sort it out later, if we have to. I’ll try to come and see you off.’

‘Commander?’ Celeguel approached. ‘The perimeter is secure, sir, and our Maiar friends have dealt with a second orc troop. Their Lord Melaglir has been most helpful in keeping us informed. Permission to change the alert status down a level to ‘watchful’?’

Triwathon nodded. Having been on the highest level of alert for three days, the step down would lift everyone’s spirits and ease the pressure on his warriors, giving them a little respite.

‘Agreed. And thank them all for their courage.’

The captain nodded and departed. Momentarily, Triwathon was alone with Glorfindel.

‘I don’t know who to send to Ithilien,’ he said to the Balrog-slayer. ‘There are only two scribes in the Palace Office now, with Feren going. I can’t really spare a warrior; it’s a much longer ride...’

‘Why does Ithilien need to know?’ Glorfindel asked. ‘Are any of its inhabitants related to those who lost their lives here?’

‘Actually, no, I doubt it. Perhaps, then, the written message can be sent on from the Old Palace; you will, I know, give our king the fullest picture of events, and it can be up to him, then, to arrange how to inform Ithilien. But do not let him talk you into going, my lord; I will need your expertise to reassure the Imladris contingent, when they arrive.’

‘Of course, Commander. I want to be here for the Night of the Names, anyway.’

‘You will be most welcome, Glorfindel.’

Three more individuals approached the commander’s table from differing directions, all claiming Triwathon’s attention at once.

Obviously this was no time for a chat, to ask Triwathon how he was feeling, today; Glorfindel could see for himself, his beloved friend was overworked, and probably using it as a coping mechanism. Ah well. Perhaps when he went to collect the message for Thranduil there would be a moment to ask. As he was already packed for the ride to the Old Palace, he used the intervening time to seek out Canadion where he and Thiriston had spent the night watching over the injured and displaced elflings.

Arriving as one of the healers was supervising breakfast, he paused in the doorway.

‘I’m after a word with Canadion?’ he said, and was relieved when the warrior emerged from behind the schoolroom desk.

‘I am here!’ he turned to address someone beneath, or behind the desk. ‘No, dear one, I will be only a moment, for Lord Glorfindel has come to speak with me. He it was brought the shiny heroes to save us yesterday... My lord Glorfindel, if you wait outside...?’

Canadion joined him in the corridor.

‘Some of the little ones are so frightened, poor things! Thiriston and I made a nest under the desk for them, and they have sheltered there all night while my husband kept watch. They find his presence very reassuring, and now, how may I serve?’

‘I’m riding to the Old Palace. Have you a message for your father I can take?’

‘Thank you, that is most kind! That I and my husband are well, Faerveren is well and likes the work, except for the dragon, and our love to Ada and Master Hanben. Oh, and Commander Triwathon has agreed we may serve here instead of Ithilien. Thank you, my lord, I am very grateful. I should get back to the elflings, now, though.’

Glorfindel nodded. ‘I’ll make sure to pass that on. Do you know where Triwathon’s office is? I said I’d collect the missives from him...’

But when he arrived at Triwathon’s desk in the Palace Office, it was empty.

‘He went with Faerveren to select gemstones for the deceased, my lord,’ a scribe told him. ‘May I help?’

‘I was to collect some letters for the Old Palace, that’s all.’

‘These are the missives, if you wish to take them; I will inform the commander...’

‘Thanks, I will.’

Reluctant to leave without seeing Triwathon, in public if necessary, Glorfindel stowed the letters with his saddlebags and made sure all was ready before going in search of the commander once more. He was sent, variously, to the barracks, to the gates, to the Healers Hall, back to the dining hall and was on the point of giving up when Celeguel’s voice hailed him.

‘He’s in the linen store off the Silent Room,’ she said. ‘Maereth’s keeping everyone out, he wouldn’t want anyone to know, but you can... can... he’s done so much for us...’

Glorfindel clasped her shoulder mutely and set off with a nod.

*

At the door of the Silent Room, Maereth inclined her head.

‘This morning our commander is setting the gemstones at the head of each of our fallen,’ she said. ‘Tonight, everyone will gather to pay their respects, speak their memories to the stones. The next day, the stones will be carried to the elflings, for them to say their remembrances. But you will not be here, tonight. So you should go and speak your memories of our good Master Parvon now. I will ensure your privacy.’

‘Thank you, Maereth.’

It was as she had said, each pallet had a gemstone set on a table at its head. Six empty places had the stone set in the middle of the empty space, and these had pearls, rather than diamonds... that meant they hadn’t been warriors, just victims. Some of the bodies, too, he now noticed, were gifted a pearl.

Not Parvon, though. The chief advisor had not yet had a stone placed by his shrouded face.

There was a door in the corner and Glorfindel went over, pushed it open. 

‘Triwathon, penneth?’

He was there, huddled in a corner, and turned at the sound of Glorfindel’s voice. His chest and shoulders heaved as if he’d only just stopped sobbing, and his face was running with tears.

‘What are you doing in here?’ Glorfindel asked softly. He stood to the side of the door, lest Triwathon needed escape, but he opened his arms in a gesture of invitation.

‘Hiding from the dead,’ he said between involuntary gasps for breath. ‘They accuse me... no, no, they don’t. But they should; I accuse me, it’s my fault...’

‘Really? How? Did you send for a dragon, did you invite orcs to come down upon you?’

Triwathon shook his head and wiped his face with the back of his hand.

‘Just... just seeing them and knowing I should have protected...’

‘We all feel like this when we fight on home ground,’ Glorfindel said softly. ‘And you never afterwards think of those who got away, because of you, those who grow up, because you fought a way through for them. All you see is the dead, Triwathon, you don’t hear the thanks of the survivors, you just hear the screams.’

‘The silences,’ Triwathon whispered, taking a step forward. ‘Oh, sweet lord Eru, the silences... when there was that voice, that one voice that started the day and ended it and now... it is like the day, yesterday, is still going on...’

...started the day and ended it? Parvon? And Triwathon? Glorfindel swallowed; now was not the time for jealousy. He reached out, but Triwathon shook his head and backed off, leaving the seclusion of the linen store. Outside, there was a basin and a water pump, and he splashed water onto his face and hands, drying off on a cloth and standing tall, red-eyed, and brave again.

‘I have yet to set Parvon’s stone,’ he said. ‘Come and help me, Glorfindel, and address the diamond with me.’

‘I thought non-combatants were honoured with pearls?’ Glorfindel said, warily following. ‘Yet none died more bravely.’

‘Yes. But Parvon was not a non-combatant. Moreover, he served the Palace Office, and therefore its people. What’s more, he died fighting to defend us.’

Triwathon laid his hand over his heart and bowed to Parvon’s remains before taking out a perfect diamond from its pouch. He touched his lips to it and set it down in place beside Parvon’s head.

‘I have so many memories of my friend and my main support that I do not know where to start,’ he said. ‘We both came to our posts new and fresh from the Old Palace, determined to make a new life here for as many of our king’s subjects as wished. In time, we hoped it would become the new centre of government and organisation, the king’s main seat, especially as he has ceded some of the southern forest away... and we enjoyed the challenge. It gave me purpose, something to fill my days after... after I recovered from my injuries.’

Glorfindel nodded.

‘Parvon took his brother’s death badly,’ Triwathon went on. ‘Yet he faced it with courage. He was not so brave, he said, as his brother. He will be proud of him now, in the Halls, learning how Parvon died.’

‘I remember Parvon,’ Glorfindel said. ‘Always polite, efficient, serious. By rights, he should have hated me... but I don’t think he was that kind of ellon.’

‘No, he wasn’t. He didn’t think well enough of himself to believe he had any right to do so, for one thing. But mostly it was because he was thoughtful and not given to outbursts of unthinking emotion.’

‘Did you not ever...?’

Triwathon shook his head.

‘No. I liked and esteemed him, he made my job much easier and he was a good friend. I... I will admit, I was warming to him. Perhaps, if he hadn’t died, in a decade or so... no.’ Triwathon sighed. ‘Perhaps I might have fooled myself into thinking I loved him, and perhaps I would have fooled him, also. But it would have all gone awry. At least this way, we both kept our integrity with each other. I will not mar that now with false pretence. I liked him, I cared about him, but I did not love him in the way he hoped I would. Perhaps his death will release him from his longings, I do not know, Glorfindel, is that how it works?’

‘Well, it did for Ecthelion...’

Triwathon looked up from his contemplation of Parvon’s memory gemstone to see a look of hurt disappointment in Glorfindel’s eyes.

‘Laurefindil?’ he said softly.

Glorfindel huffed out his breath.

‘Tell you later, if you wish,’ he said. ‘But the Halls of Mandos... they are vast, and they are calm, and there is always a sense of peace there. Sometimes it feels sad, but then you realise, it’s your own fëa that brings the sadness... you can meet with people and talk there, and there is never any rush, anywhere else you need to go, nothing you must do... Ecthelion and I, we would talk for years on end together... Parvon will find rest there, and if he has fallen kin, they may well be there to greet him... he will not be alone, unless he wants to be.’

‘I remember he said it didn’t matter that I couldn’t love him,’ Triwathon said. ‘That he treasured my honesty. I never wanted him to be hurt.’

‘It wasn’t all hidden anguish, though, was it?’

‘No, oh, no, we would laugh together... I remember how, when the king had visited once, and left behind some rather good wine... Parvon and I, we shared a bottle, we laughed for hours and I do not know what amused us so... we would start the day together, a breakfast meeting, to discuss what we expected to happen – patrols, training, or visitors and deliveries, and at the end of the day, just to make sure all had gone reasonably to plan... and talk, we would talk, sometimes. He shared the last Night of the Names with me... well, we will honour him, this year.’ He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. ‘Now, there was a letter you needed from me...’

‘I got it from your office, Commander,’ Glorfindel said, for Triwathon had gathered his fragile emotions together once more and looked every bit the Commander of the New Palace Garrison. ‘And I must make my way to the stables, my Maia escort will be waiting...’

‘Let me walk you through,’ Triwathon said. ‘My thanks for volunteering, Glorfindel. I need all my people to keep us together, now.’

‘You let Feren go, I note.’

‘Feren has served well and loyally, but he would be the first to admit he doesn’t want to be in charge. He will be more at ease taking the word to Imladris; I almost expect him to return with Arveldir and Erestor, although it would be too much to hope for...’

Not only Triwathon was there to see the messengers off; a little crowd of persons had gathered to watch as the commander wished Glorfindel and Feren a safe journey and thanked their Maiar escorts.

‘Be well, my friends,’ he said, standing back. ‘And hasten home when you are done.’

Of course, he had expected it would be hard to watch Glorfindel ride away just the day after he had arrived. Still, he had to be there to see it, part of his duty to watch the messengers go.

What he hadn’t expected was Celeguel at his elbow, Maereth at his other side, their silent, dignified support strengthening him.

After the riders had gone, Maereth turned towards him.

‘Commander, if you have a few minutes, I would like to speak to you in my halls.’

‘I think that can be arranged... Celeguel?’

‘Commander, I can take charge while you are busy.’

‘My thanks.’

Maereth led the way to her office and closed the door firmly.

‘Now I have you sitting still for a moment, Commander...’

‘Is there something I can help you with?’

‘I want to be sure all is well with you, that is all.’

‘I am fine, there are others with more urgent needs...’

‘Commander, one cannot serve from an empty cup. Unless you take care of yourself, you will be no good to anybody else. And I happen to know you were thrown a considerable distance through the air yesterday and landed hard...’

‘I have one or two bruises, it’s true. Would it reassure you to know that Lord Glorfindel looked at them for me last evening?’

‘It would. And will you pardon me for saying, poor Parvon?’

‘I will echo you, Maereth. Parvon was my good friend and what I will do without him – what the Palace Office will do without him – I have no idea... I can’t pretend I’m not glad Glorfindel didn’t sail. But I think I am glad Parvon didn’t know he was here. And so, I am fine.’

‘You are not fine, Triwathon! You are stressed, and exhausted, and grieving...’

‘I am alive, and I am not bleeding from anywhere, and our borders are secured. I am as fine as I need to be. How are you and your healers coping?’

‘We are all fine – as fine as we need to be.’ Maereth smiled. ‘Glorfindel’s work with the elflings was most welcome, and Canadion and Thiriston have been so very, very good with the little ones...’

‘Did you know Thiriston lost his own parents young, to dragon fire?’

‘No, I did not. I know he and Canadion both were at the Battle of the Three Dragons... as were you, Commander...’

‘Well, that day all I did was keep out of trouble and see my friends burn and die... Thiriston killed one dragon, Canadion saved our king from another.’

‘You made up for it yesterday, though. You killed the twin-headed one.’

‘Parvon and I, yes. We killed it. Is there anything else, Healer Mae?’

‘The final report. The last survivors arrived this morning, while you were attending to the gemstones. Thanks to them, and their accounts, we have a tally of sixteen dead, eight irretrievably lost on the field, so I must lay out another two pallets and ask for more stones, and all the inhabitants of the settlements are now accounted for.’

‘Twenty four lost!’

‘Over three days, against orcs, and fire, and a dragon. Commander, if you speak to the door wardens, they will tell you of fifty-two survivors, brought in by your warriors, more brought by the Maiar... I do not deny the loss of life is dreadful, but it could have been much worse!’

‘There is no hope of bringing in any of the eight?’

She shook her head. ‘They were eaten, or burned so badly they could not be so honoured.’

‘We will arrange for a cairn, then, and honour them that way. And gather in branches from their favourite trees to lay to rest in place of their remains.’

‘Thank you, Commander. Of course, that would normally be the purview of the Palace Office...’

‘We’re down to Faerveren and Tirnel and they are already pressed.’

‘And still you let Feren go.’

‘Of course I did; I could think of no-one better to speak to Arveldir, and to Rusdir whose sister was lost.’

‘It was well-done, I think. But it makes more work for you.’

‘That doesn’t matter. The fighting is over, Maereth. This is the difficult part.’

*

It did, at least, keep Triwathon busy, stop him having too much time to feel the full weight of their losses. The New Palace was secure again, there was store enough of food and water even with their Maiar guests to house. Oromë visited the Silent Room, standing respectfully as Triwathon encouraged people to speak their memories. He was grateful that Canadion spoke to Parvon’s stone, for he had remembered enough, for now, of his friend, but Canadion’s stories made him smile.

‘I remember Parvon, when my adar came to the Old Palace for my wedding. Afterwards, there was a party, and Adar flirted with him... he liked his eyes... to be fair, Ada flirted with everyone that night... but after, Parvon seemed happier. And they worked together in the King’s Office, and Ada said Parvon was always very kind to those who arrived in trouble, who were sad. I will miss him, even though I did not know him well, because he was like that; he made everything just a little bit easier for everyone else without shouting about it.’

‘And you do this for all your dead?’ Oromë asked softly. Triwathon nodded.

‘We speak our memories to the gemstones, and it helps us remember. We hope the messages of love and memory go from the gems to the stars, and that the starlight will bear them on to our loved ones.’ He glanced at Oromë. ‘Lord, I have lain near death and spoken with Lord Námo. I have come to the conclusion that our beliefs do not necessarily reflect the facts. But that does not matter; I am Silvan, and so I honour our dead in the Silvan way.’

‘I would not presume to offer my opinion, Commander.’

They stood and waited until the last of the visitors had left their memories, and departed, leaving Triwathon and Oromë alone. The Vala went over to Parvon’s pallet and gestured to the diamond there.

‘May I?’

‘It would honour my friend if you would, my lord.’

‘I did not know you well enough, Master Parvon, to form many memories,’ he began. ‘But I remember how bravely you died. I remember the love in your heart for your Commander Triwathon, and I wonder why someone as intelligent as you should love, and continue to love, in all hopelessness. I wonder what someone as brave as you is afraid of, that you spend your love on one you knew you would never attain.’

Triwathon stared, speechless, as the Vala straightened and addressed himself directly to Parvon.

‘While you’re in the Halls, look out for one Orophin, if you need a friend. He’s sweet, and lonely, and awfully flexible.’ He winked. ‘So they tell me.’

‘My lord Oromë?’ 

The Vala smiled.

‘Yes, I am done, thank you. He’ll like Orophin, I’m sure. Come, young friend. Tonight my friends will join you at the feast, and very soon, the messengers will be back amongst us again.’


	5. The Old Palace: There and Back Again...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Glorfindel takes the news to Thranduil...

Glorfindel’s Maia escort introduced himself as Ferchanar, and he had a friendly, laughing aspect as they took to their mounts.

‘A two or three day run, you say? Not for us!’ He smiled at the Silvans who had come to see them off. ‘We will be at your Old Palace by nightfall!’

‘You should look out for other Silvans on the way,’ Triwathon said. ‘If our message got through, no doubt our king will have despatched a company to help us.’

‘No doubt,’ Ferchanar said. ‘Yes, Glorfindel and I will look out for them.’

‘Be well, my lord, and our thanks. Glorfindel, be well.’

Glorfindel nodded.

‘And you.’

*

Feren and his escort, a Maia called Eiliannath shared their route only for a few moments before veering off to the west as Glorfindel and Ferchanar continued southwards; they were gone too swiftly for each party even to bid each other farewell, but Ferchanar laughed.

‘We will all be reunited when the time is right, Glorfindel! Now, settle to the task and let us really ride!’

Early afternoon, to judge from the flickers of light above the trees, and the Maia lifted a hand, slowed his horse, and Glorfindel reined in behind him.

‘There are elves ahead,’ Ferchanar said. ‘They travel in silent haste in the trees.’

‘The Silvans use bird calls, or something like them, to signal in the forests,’ Glorfindel said. ‘Triwathon taught me a call or two...’

‘Very well, let them hear that it.’

Cupping his hands around his mouth, Glorfindel sent out the identifier he had learned so long ago, finishing with the swooping whistle that indicated he wanted to talk to them.

He hoped.

For all he knew, he might just have announced himself as being in need of a bottle of wine.

Which would be nice, he had to admit...

Through the canopy, the sound of rising and falling whistles and, of course, he had no idea what they were saying...

He whistled and warbled out his name again, while Ferchanar grinned delightedly.

‘Ah, my friend, you have just announced that Goldfinch the Balrog is waiting in the woods!’ he laughed. ‘Permit me.’

The calls Ferchanar sent up into the canopy sounded exactly the same, to Glorfindel, as the ones he’d sent. Really. Very nearly, at least, but were rewarded by more replies and, presently, so soft that it was almost undetectable, a rustling in the branches and two Silvans dropped through the canopy to stand before them.

‘My lord Goldfinch,’ one began, grinning, then saw the Maia and dropped to his knees. ‘Great one, well met and your pardon...’

‘Peace, Child Silvan! Ferchanar, and you are...?’

‘Lanthidir, my lord. With me is Thannor and behind, Calithilon and Erthor... others you might not have met...’

‘Ha, but those two I know from old!’ Glorfindel said. ‘And you too, Lanthidir, wait until I tell your sister of your impudence!’

‘Amathel, you have news, is she safe?’ Lanthidir asked. ‘Forgive me, I... we...’

The other elves in the company gathered around, awe and eagerness for news vying in them.

Glorfindel took a moment to clasp arms with Erthor and Calithilon in greeting. Ferchanar caught his eye and nodded, tacitly agreeing he should tell the news.

‘Your king had a message from Triwathon’s company in the north, yes?’

‘Orcs, a dragon... we are sent to assess and assist, or to return for reinforcements...’

‘It’s over,’ Glorfindel said. ‘You noticed my splendid companion? Well, his lord and ours, the Vala Oromë, and his host, are protecting the boundaries of the New Palace...’

‘So all is well?’ Lanthidir asked.

‘It is now,’ Glorfindel said. ‘After a fashion. There have been losses, and since your honoured dead are not laid to rest, yet, I can give you their names... perhaps your king should know first, but I won’t tell him if you don’t...’

‘Tell us first, what of Commander Triwathon?’

‘Yes, he is safe, and not much hurt, Captain Celeguel is fine, Amathel... Feren, the advisor’s assistant Faerveren, Thiriston and Canadion, Maereth, they are well... I don’t know all the names, I’m sorry, but I do know all were accounted for...’ He steeled himself. ‘Sadly, this coming Night of the Names, you will need to remember Chief Advisor Parvon...’

He had committed all the names to memory so he didn’t have to read them out, so that he felt he was properly honouring the dead, continuing on despite the shocked and distressed gasps of the Silvans. At the end of it, he bowed his head and touched his heart.

‘They died bravely, each and all of them. Commander Triwathon and Parvon took on the dragon together, and Parvon wounded it badly enough for Triwathon to them slay the beast. I’m told it could have been far worse, but that’s no comfort for those left. I hope none were very dear to any of you?’

‘We all knew Parvon, of course,’ Erthor said. ‘We were watching him, your pardon Glorfindel, they were laying bets on when Triwathon would capitulate...’

‘What shall we do now?’ Lanthidir asked. ‘Left to myself, I would hasten on, seek to support the Commander; he has lost warriors and friends...’

‘Yes, I think that would be a good idea,’ Glorfindel said. ‘They are safe, but one of the things that will help them is to talk about what happened, and they all know it, so who is there to tell? Your company will be of great service there.’

The Silvans wanted to know more, naturally enough, but apart from the basic details, Glorfindel shook his head and took to his horse again.

‘No, I only arrived at the end, you’ll have to ask Triwathon. Be well.’

*

Early evening, Glorfindel signalled Ferchanar and they slowed.

‘We are near, my lord; this road runs to the bridge over the stream before the gates. There will be guards.’

‘Of course there will be guards,’ Ferchanar said, a laugh in his voice. ‘But I am sure we will have no trouble. Or will we? Did you last leave this place under a cloud, or to a fanfare?’

‘To a very nice kiss, actually,’ Glorfindel said, smiling at the memory. ‘Long time ago, of course, back before that business with the ring. And the dragon. Saw my friend since, elsewhere. But the Old Palace? No, I’ve not been back.’

The guards, though, recognised him, and saw the strange brightness of his companion with reverential awe. Ferchanar waved them up off their knees.

‘No, I am not so high as you think; I serve the Lord Oromë, I am not he. Come now, we must – Lord Glorfindel must see your king...’

‘We do not know... that is... perhaps the King’s Office?’

‘That’s the place I need,’ Glorfindel said. ‘See to the horses, will you? Is it still in the same place, then?’

‘Yes, lord. But ask any servant, if you need.’

A few minutes saw them arrive at the administration wing, and Glorfindel knocked on the door. It was opened by a very attractive ellon with glorious gold-ringed eyes and a shimmer of chestnut hair. He gasped when he saw who his visitor was.

‘Lord Glorfindel! Be welcome amongst us... and... oh, my lord, you do attract some handsome company, do you not?’

‘Flirting with the visitors again, you rascal?’ a voice from further in enquired. 

The ellon smiled back over his shoulder. 

‘Hanben, it’s Glorfindel! And he has brought a friend to visit, will you come in, my lords, and how may the King’s Office serve you today?’

At sight of Ferchanar the other ellon in the room paled and bowed deeply.

‘Merenor, do you not see who this is? My lord, forgive my husband, he is always terribly informal...’

‘Friendly, I am simply friendly and welcoming,’ Merenor amended.

‘And he walked with the Elk-tamers, once, he knows he does not need formality, not with me. Ferchanar, of Oromë’s host.’

‘Lord Ferchanar, how can we help?’ Hanben said, coming forward.

‘I need to see the king,’ Glorfindel said. ‘I have news of the New Palace... and before you ask, Canadion sends his and Thiriston and Faerveren’s love, they are all well, and safe.’

Merenor seemed to sag, and Hanben hurried forward to support him with a gentle arm.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘When we heard of the dragon, we were worried...’

‘Not just for my son and grandson, of course,’ Merenor said. ‘But of course, you think of family first...’

‘The dragon is dead, the rest of our host patrols and my lord Oromë is watching over your friends,’ Ferchanar said. ‘We passed your company on the way; they are going on to help.’

‘But I need to tell the king,’ Glorfindel said. ‘If one of you were to usher me in, or suchlike, you can hear all the news as I tell it.’

‘A good notion,’ Hanben said. ‘Perhaps it should be I who accompanies you. Merenor, please keep Lord Ferchanar company until I return. Do try not to flirt with him too much.’

‘Ah, we will have plenty to talk about,’ Ferchanar said.

‘And it will go down better over a glass or two of wine. Would you care to follow me? We have a pleasant sitting room, through here...’

*

‘I am teasing, of course,’ Hanben said as he led Glorfindel through the palace. ‘I know my scoundrel would not go so far even as to bend our vows, let alone break them. But thank you for telling him first of Canadion and Faerveren; he has been worried, and trying not to show it. Were the losses heavy?’

‘Considering what happened, they’re saying it could have been worse...’ Glorfindel had already been through this on the road, and was going to have to do it again for the king; another telling would be too much. ‘Well, I’m going to give Thranduil the full report. You’ll hear then.’  
Bowing to Thranduil, the cool greeting, Hanben explaining.

‘My king, Lord Glorfindel brings news of the New Palace.’

‘Yes?’ Had Thranduil shifted slightly in his throne, was that a look of interest, concern in the calm features? ‘What news?’

‘Your majesty, the Host of Oromë brought me with them. We arrived towards the end of the siege. All is now done, the battle won, the dragon and orcs slain, the Host protecting the borders...’ Glorfindel proffered the missive from Triwathon and took a deep, steadying breath. He owed it to the dead of the New Palace to properly announce their loss. ‘I remember... sire, Master Hanben, I am sorry to have to begin so, but I remember Chief Advisor Parvon...’

Again he named them, honoured them, offered his respect for the king and Hanben to witness. Afterwards, he told of the condition of the survivors, the tragedy of elflings, orphaned, the void left by the loss of the chief advisor.

‘Word has gone to Imladris, of course?’ Thranduil asked, when Glorfindel finished.

‘Of course, lord king. One of the Host rode west with Feren; the word will reach them swiftly. Commander Triwathon is hoping that Lord Arveldir will return to the New Palace, along with Captain Rusdir who now is all the family his nephews have left...’

‘Of course. We are grateful for your haste in bringing us this news.’ Thranduil stirred lazily in his chair. ‘Hanben, this news must go south. I will write to Ithilien directly, we will send a hawk.’

‘Yes, my king.’

‘Lord Glorfindel, we thank you for your time. There is never a good way to hear bad news, but your haste is appreciated. If you have the heart for it, join us at the high table tonight, you and your otherworldly escort.’

He didn’t feel like it, not really, but made the effort and found himself seated next to Healer Nestoril who questioned him closely about Maereth, how she was coping, what injuries there were... it made a change, he supposed, to talk about the living.

‘How many elflings did you say? And how many lost one parent, how many both...?’

‘I can’t tell you that much, I’m afraid; I really don’t know much about the families there. I do know Canadion and Thiriston have stepped in as honour-brothers, I suppose, to the little ones.’

‘Poor Maereth will be overwhelmed!’ the healer said. ‘I will come back with you. That is, if my king permits?’

‘We would have said, send Gaelbes, but if you wish to go, Healer Nestoril, of course we will not refuse you.’

‘Sire, I am grateful.’

‘In fact, I will ride with you. When do you plan on leaving, Glorfindel?’

*

Celeguel was waiting in the falling dusk when Glorfindel arrived back the following evening. She stared to see Thranduil and the chief healer of the Old Palace rein in beside him, but recovered herself enough to bow properly and acknowledge the greetings of her king and Nestoril, making arrangements for the horses, and the king’s white elk, to be led away and cared for.

At the first opportunity she drew Glorfindel away to one side.

‘He’s been in the linen store again. I do what I can, I know you were only gone two days... you should have seen him, you’d have been so proud... over our lost warriors’ gemstones, he led us in a chorus of ‘Heroes Going Home’, it lifted our hearts but then, an hour later, he was looked for and today he has been very grey...’

‘Where is he now?’

‘In his office. I hope. That’s where he’s meant to be. Glorfindel, you have to do something, I can’t bear to see him like this, hiding away his pain... when he’s hiding it, he’s not starting to do anything with it.’

Glorfindel thought about that as he headed for the Palace Office where Triwathon kept a desk. He’d had enough encounters with death in the past to know there was something in what Celeguel had said. But it took time, time to face such loss, time to come to terms with it. This wasn’t the first occasion that Triwathon had grieved for someone, and he had, perhaps, not coped well to begin with.

But apart from looking a little weary around the eyes, Triwathon seemed reasonably calm as he got up to greet the Balrog-slayer.

‘Glorfindel, welcome back,’ he said, smiling. ‘Sooner than we dared hope.’

‘Riding with a Maia for company is like flying,’ Glorfindel said, smiling. He glanced over at the other occupied desk in the room where a scribe with chestnut hair and an industrious manner was paying as much attention as he could to his work. ‘Master Faerveren? Pardon the interruption, but I bring best wishes from Masters Merenor and Hanben who were both pleased to know you are well.’

‘Oh.’ The scribe looked up at last and a tentative smile brushed across his face. ‘My lord, that is most kind of you... I am very grateful...’

‘You’re welcome. Would you mind taking over here? I need to speak with the Commander for a time.’

‘Of course, my lord. Commander, if you are needed...’

‘...people will have to wait for him,’ Glorfindel said. ‘The Commander and I have matters of state to discuss.’

‘I can spare you almost an hour, Glorfindel,’ Triwathon told him, tidying the papers on his desk. ‘Then I must speak to Maereth for her report on the injured ahead of the night meal. But come; you must be tired after your journey; we can sit at ease, at least, while we talk.’

‘My room, perhaps?’ Glorfindel suggested once they were in the privacy of the empty corridor. ‘I brought something back for you; they said someone would bring my pack.’

‘All right. How was it?’

‘Oh... easier talking about those who survived than those who didn’t. You know how it is.’

Triwathon nodded. He knew.

‘We passed a small company on the way, they should be here tomorrow, I’d think. Erthor and Calithilon are amongst them.’

‘Ah, they have been good friends to me, those two. It’s something to look forward to.’

In Glorfindel’s room the Balrog-slayer led Triwathon to a seat and fetched his pack.

‘You can have this now, if you want. Or later, after supper. Or in a few days, whenever you like,’ he said, and handed Triwathon a bottle. ‘You don’t even have to drink it from a glass...’

‘Honey beer!’ The Commander laughed. ‘Ai, the memories this brings back...’

He tilted his head and smiled at Glorfindel, thinking about the times they’d shared a bottle in the past... suddenly, the smile faltered, became a grimace of pain.

‘My very dear Laurefindil, I am sorry, but I do not have the heart. Not quite yet.’

‘No, that’s all right. But I thought it was important.’ Glorfindel knelt beside him, cupped his face gently. ‘Because there will be a day when it seems right, again, to smile, to drink beer – yes, and to play games with it, too. That day may seem far off right now, my beloved, beautiful fëa’d friend, but it will come. And I will be here, if you want me to be, waiting until it does.’

Triwathon leaned forward and kissed Glorfindel’s forehead. It felt like a benediction.

‘Hir nin, iphant nin, thank you. However sad I am at heart, the recollections that come with this gift console me. I... Of course I want you here, but I have to be the Commander for a little while longer, I cannot simply be your friend, there is no-one else to lead here.’

‘Well, actually, there might be,’ Glorfindel said, smiling, getting up to drop in a chair near Triwathon’s where he could see his beautiful friend’s face. ‘We didn’t return alone. Healer Ness insisted on coming with us...’

‘Oh, that is most excellent news, Laurefindil! Maereth has done so well, and so much, but she still doubts herself. Ness will bolster her.’

Glorfindel cleared his throat and rushed on.

‘...and so did the king.’

‘What? Thranduil, here, and you did not tell me?’ Triwathon got to his feet and reached for his jacket. ‘Why did you not say?’

‘Because I knew as soon as I did you’d be rushing off to report to him.’

‘Glorfindel...!’

‘Oh, I’m ‘Glorfindel’ again, am I?’ He grinned and rose from his seat. ‘Lord Oromë and the Maiar had him in their sights; no doubt he’s been exchanging pleasantries with our exalted friends. There’s no hurry.’


	6. 'Now is Not Yet...'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thranduil's arrival brings a sense of relief...

‘It was remiss of me not to be present when your party returned; I should have been there to greet you, and you brought my king...’

‘Celeguel said all the pretty things, Triwathon. ’ Glorfindel said. ‘Let me come with you?’

‘Gladly. Our king will want to see the wounded. He will go to the Healers’ Hall first.’ Triwathon sighed. ‘It’s going to take him some time, of course.’

But Thranduil was not in the Healers’ Hall; Healer Nestoril was there, comforting Maereth with a gentle hug as the healer finally gave way to the despair she’d been struggling with. Exchanging glances with Nestoril, Glorfindel stepped forward and took Maereth from her, soothing her with muttered words under his breath and gently, very gently pressing his fingers into the sensitive nerves at her shoulder.

‘Maereth has been wonderful.’ Triwathon said. ‘She hasn’t stopped since the first injured arrived.’

‘Well, she can stop now,’ Nestoril said. ‘I am here, and will gladly work while she rests.’

‘If you can persuade her to do so,’ Triwathon said.

‘...and she’s asleep.’ Glorfindel smiled and lifted Maereth easily in his strong arms. ‘A bed somewhere, anyone?’

One of Maereth’s assistants broke off her work to indicate an empty pallet nearby.

‘Healer Nestoril, we thank you,’ Triwathon said as Glorfindel returned.

‘Nonsense, Commander!’ The healer smiled. ‘I’m glad to help, really. Maereth said something about elflings?’

‘Yes. Those who were not badly injured have been housed in the school room. Captains Canadion and Thiriston have been with them constantly. The young ones find Thiriston’s strength reassuring, and Canadion tells the little ones stories and sings to them... sadly, several elflings have lost both parents; I do not have all the details, all the names, but Maereth will know.’ He glanced at the exhausted Healer, now smiling in reverie on the nearest free pallet. ‘When she wakes. Really, I cannot speak highly enough of her, all the work she has had and still – still, she would take a moment to support me. Come, the elflings’ room is along here.’

Not only did they find Canadion and Thiriston with the elflings, but Thranduil himself was present. He was sometimes considered to be cold, and distant, and indeed, in his dealings with people outside his realm, he kept aloof. But those who knew him well saw a different king, one who sought to protect and nurture his people, and one with time and patience with elflings which he seldom spared for adults.

Even a small-scale child’s seat could be a throne if one sat on it properly, and Thranduil bore himself regally in the centre of the room. On his lap a small elfling had burrowed into his robes, and at his feet three other little ones sat while he talked in slow and calm tones to them.

‘Captain Celeguel, you say, brought you home? All of you? Ah, Captain Amathel was your rescuer, I see. Yes, indeed, penneth, I do know Captain Amathel, she can throw a knife almost as well as Captain Thiriston here... no, I am the king, I do not need to throw knives, my young friend, I have warriors to throw them for me... I am honoured to have met you. How very brave you have all been! But now I must leave you, there are other people I must meet with, sadly, there is business to be attended to. Later, perhaps... when later? In the morning, then, after the formal breakfast hour in the main hall, I will return then. But here is my friend Healer Nestoril come to visit instead,’

Thranduil got to his feet, passed the burrowing elfling to Canadion, and eased his robes out from beneath the other little ones. He lifted a hand as Triwathon bowed.

‘Walk with me, Commander.’

‘My lord king, we are honoured by your visit.’

Outside in the corridor, Thranduil asked the hard question.

‘How many?’

‘Twenty four.’ Triwathon sighed. ‘There are eight whose remains stay on the field. We lost seven warriors, fifteen civilians and... and chief advisor Parvon. He fought the dragon with me, at the end.’

‘Take me to them.’

Thranduil knew the names, all of them, from the ellith of the village to the orc-slain warriors, each and every one. By the empty pallets he asked who was commemorated, and he spoke to the gemstones of his honour and pride in their lives. He came last to Parvon and uncovered his face, nodding at the horror he saw there.

‘My dear friend,’ he said softly. ‘You have seen the ruin of dragon fire on my face, in my wrath. I share your pain. We who are left without you, how will we bear it?’

He bent and kissed Parvon’s forehead then covered him again. Behind him Triwathon was weeping and as Thranduil turned, he tried to hide his tears.

‘No, Commander,’ the king said softly. ‘Do not be ashamed to weep for the loss of a friend, for sacrifice made freely. By doing so, you honour him. I, too, have wept for warriors, in my time.’

‘Sire, I...’

‘Peace, Triwathon. They tell me, dragons and orcs notwithstanding, the New Palace keeps a good table. I will visit the wounded now, and see you at dinner. Might I suggest you bear Lord Glorfindel company and later escort him to the dining hall? I will attend the Healers Hall now; the staff there can show me around.’

‘He doesn’t change, does he?’ Glorfindel said softly once Thranduil had left. ‘Always an eye for everything, everyone...’

‘He is our king,’ Triwathon said. He was standing next to Parvon’s body and was holding the dead advisor’s hand absently. ‘Not the littlest elfling, not the greatest warrior escapes his notice, or his care.’

‘So, what now? Will you bear me company as your king suggested? Or do you need to go and sit in the linen store again?’ 

It was said lightly, lovingly, and Triwathon smiled.

‘I do not think I will ever be done weeping for our losses,’ he said. ‘But perhaps Thranduil is right; I must stop hiding away when I do, for it honours no-one, that way.’

‘There will be a day when you notice, suddenly, yesterday, your eyes were dry. And you will be surprised, and even feel guilty for it. But that is how we are, and really, our dead are not lost to us. They are safe in the Halls of Mandos.’

‘We grieve for ourselves, this I know. For the voids left around us that used to be filled with these fëar... I know. We will need to consider laying them to rest, and how to honour those left where they lay... and I must consult, discover how long before the injured are well enough, if they wish to attend... and...’ Triwathon released Parvon’s hand, settling him comfortably. ‘Another reason I am glad our king is come; he will know what is best. Well, come away, Glorfindel. I am to bear you company until dinner, remember?’

Glorfindel grinned.

‘I wonder how we’ll fill the time,’ he said, holding the door open.

Triwathon smiled, but his heart wasn’t really in it, and he ducked away, hoping Glorfindel hadn’t noticed. But in the presence of Parvon’s remains, all such thoughts seemed disrespectful, somehow. He may not have been able to love his advisor as much as Parvon had wanted, but he had still cared deeply for him.

‘It’s too soon, I know,’ Glorfindel said in the corridor. ‘I was only trying to make you smile, but... it seems I didn’t. Forgive me, I... am not always as wise as I like to think I am.’

‘You are a dear and kind friend,’ Triwathon said. ‘I am truly grateful for all you have done for me – for us all. And if I am slow to show it, in the wake of these terrible events, still, I am glad you are with me.’

‘No, I know that,’ Glorfindel said. ‘Is there anywhere nice to walk around here? Some fresh air might do you good...’

Triwathon held Glorfindel’s gaze. ‘There was, until about a week ago,’ he said. ‘Now there is mostly ruin and ash outside our walls. Or did you not notice?’

‘Sorry, my dear friend, sorry. But riding with the Host, you’re miles from home before you realise you’re even moving. And coming back... well, I was looking to see you, nothing else.’

‘And I have been terrible company...’

‘No. No, you’ve been just what I need, Triwathon. I think we’re going to need to talk... not yet. It’s too soon for yet. And you need time, and... I didn’t realise it, not until I rode in today, but I need time, too... your Night of the Names is coming up, though. I can wait until then.’

They gained Triwathon’s rooms and the Commander closed the door after them before he made answer.

‘Do I need to worry?’

‘No, nothing to fret over... I suppose that did sound a bit ominous, sorry... I think... the first night I was here, and we talked, and lay down together for an hour or two and were just still... I thought I was comforting you, but the truth was, I think I needed it just as much. Nothing heated, or passionate – just gentle friendship, a friendly hug.’

Triwathon nodded.

‘My dear Laurefindil, there is always a hug for you in my arms.’ 

He opened his arms and Glorfindel walked into them, allowing Triwathon to fold him into his embrace. The Balrog-slayer brought his face to Triwathon’s neck and nestled in.

‘Ah, that is wonderful! I think the only thing better than this hug would be a lying-down hug? One of your wonderful Triwathon cuddles, without the distraction of the ear nipping, what do you say?’

‘I say I would be delighted, but that the dinner call will sound in twenty minutes...’

‘A clothed, chaste Triwathon cuddle, on top of the bed, then...? Fifteen minutes...?’

‘That’s a plan I can work with.’

*

Shortly before the call to dinner, there was a knock on Triwathon’s door.

‘Good job we’re dressed,’ Glorfindel muttered, allowing his beautiful fëa’d friend to slide his arm out from beneath him.

‘Yes, indeed, but my thanks, hir-nin, iphant-nin...’

When Triwathon opened the door, Celeguel was there to smile at him.

‘Good news, Commander! Melaglir went out to seek those behind you on the trail, he has brought them. Calithilon and Erthor and their companions, they arrived a short while ago and will be at dinner. And word has gone round that our king is here, so the dining hall will be full and... and...’ she paused to glance down ‘And this has nothing to do with anything, Triwathon, but... Melaglir smiled at me and... oh, and... andIreallythinkhe’swonderfulandcanyouintroduceusproperlyplease...’

‘I’ll do what I can,’ Triwathon said. ‘But perhaps Glorfindel knows him better than I...?’

‘Oh, I did not know you had company, Triwathon, I...’

‘We were just talking,’ Glorfindel said in aggrieved tones guaranteed to make her believe him.

‘Talking is good,’ she agreed. ‘Commander, there will be a formal top table tonight – not formal dress, just people... and his majesty has especially asked for you to be seated with him.’

Triwathon sighed; it was an honour he could do without.

Worse, there was an honour guard to walk him into the dining room, as if he had saved them all, as if it was his doing... he shook his head, tears prickling. Thranduil had been right; to hide his grief was to not honour the dead.

Faerveren, promoted to King’s Assistant for the night, showed him to his place – on Thranduil’s left, with Glorfindel next to him, Celeguel beyond. Beside the king on his right, the Vala Oromë was placed, and beyond him, Nestoril and Maereth. Thiriston and Canadion were Celeguel’s other neighbours, relieved of their duty with the elflings for an hour or two.

The dining hall was full, extra benches being brought in, a sense of relief pervading the air to have their king present. He addressed them before the serving, honoured their courage, sympathised with their losses, spoke of the need for fortitude in the days ahead, and left the assembled elves sitting straighter, feeling more hopeful against the despair of recent days.

And as Thranduil prepared to withdraw at the end of the meal, Triwathon found himself politely invited to attend a private meeting with his majesty along with a few others... Faerveren was there, and Maereth. Celeguel, too, but Glorfindel, somewhat to his annoyance, was not invited, but instead encouraged to visit the elflings in lieu of Thiriston and Canadion, also required for the audience.

‘Do not worry, you didn’t miss much,’ Triwathon told him next morning, visiting Glorfindel in his rooms, ostensibly to escort him to breakfast. ‘Our king had some thoughts he wished to share with us... our situation now is under consideration...’

‘In what way?’

‘Well, our initial purpose here was just for the sort of thing that has happened, to be a garrison between the forest and the dregs of the darkness... but then a small, vocal contingent wished to come and set up home with us... and although we tried to put safety measures in place...’ Triwathon shook his head. ‘At the time, our instructions were to allow it, else it would seem we thought ourselves in imminent danger of attack and thus worry everyone, but I wonder now if that was fair... But it was not my decision.’ 

Glorfindel paused for a moment, wondering at the kind of mind that would allow settlement in a potentially dangerous region, just to reassure the rest of the kingdom that the dark days were over.

‘Of course, you would expect any trouble to happen within the first year, to be pretty constant,’ he said. ‘Not after two or three, and not if it’s been quiet for a while...’

‘True. And the settlers did say within bounds, at first. Our king was kind when he spoke of it last evening. He says it was not... not our fault that non-combatants died.’ Triwathon sighed. ‘But I look at the elflings, and I find it difficult to believe.’

Glorfindel nodded, waiting, for Triwathon had yet to get to the point.

‘Our king wants to bring everybody home to the Old Palace,’ the Commander said, finally. ‘To abandon the idea of a New Palace; he has, of course, moved the centre of the realm before, brought all of his Silvans from the south and west of the Greenwood to settle near the Forest River. To do so again, after the cleansing of the world, seemed fitting, he told us. But now he is minded to keep within more known bounds, and so we will begin after the Night of the Names to plan for a reduction of the settlement.’

‘Triwathon...! How do you feel about that?’

‘In what way, Glorfindel? How do I feel that my command has ended in disaster and ruin? That more than a score bright, bright Silvans will no longer sing in the forests, that the trees are burned and broken?’ Triwathon shook his head at his own bitterness of tone. ‘I feel... I feel, for all my king’s kindness, that I have failed him, and Parvon, and all those who lie dead beside him, or lie lost in the forest.’

Just for a moment he wished he dared ask, how would you feel, Glorfindel? Instead, knowing his friend’s history, he sighed and lifted a hand in a placating gesture.

‘How did you bear it, Laurefindil, all the times you looked at victory and knew it was only defeat, disguised?’

The Balrog slayer found a smile for him.

‘I really do not know. I think... and it is easy to say, look at those you saved, not those you could not, but that doesn’t help, not at first. I think I had... people... who helped me. There was always Ecthelion, until he died, the same day that I did.’ It hurt to say the name, to acknowledge the debt, to remember his last sight of his former beloved. ‘And then, there was you. But it was a long time between the guilt of surviving, and the meeting you. Perhaps the time helped a little.’

‘I think... I think I will be glad to leave here, but, oh, I will have to leave Parvon, too, and I do not think I can bear it...’

‘You won’t be able to leave straight away, though,’ Glorfindel said, ignoring the pang when Triwathon mentioned the dead advisor. ‘Some of your wounded will need time to heal, the non-combatants will need to get organised and be sent ahead under escort... and I doubt Thranduil would utterly abandon the garrison. Besides, you know how it is with us; we are light, made of air and laughter and spirit, our flesh disintegrates swiftly once the fëa is settled in Mandos’ Halls... six months, and all will be gone... and that is not helping, is it?’ he finished as Triwathon turned his face away and his shoulders shook with weeping once more. ‘Sorry, I am so sorry, Triwathon...’

_...I loved him. Glorfindel, I loved Parvon, and I didn’t tell him. It wasn’t how he wanted me to love him, but it might have been, one day, and it’s too late now to tell him, or to ever know if I could, if we could... and you come back with your eyes dark and pained and it’s not just from sympathy, I know, and oh, Glorfindel, I love you, whatever it might have been with Parvon, I love you more and if only I could hold you, you could hold me, and there was nothing else, then I think it would be all right. But you have some sort of secret and I am too raw with guilt... And you will only go away again, you will only leave me again... You are right, this is not the time to speak. Now, to speak now, it would destroy us. Whatever your secret. Whatever I say about Parvon..._

The Commander turned.

‘Hir-nin, iphant nin, Laurefindil-nin. I am bored with guilt, and weeping for myself, and being less than I expect to be. Forgive me my weakness. Today, after breakfast, after the king has visited the elflings, he wishes to ride out and inspect the places where our lost dead lie fallen. The prospect dismays me, that is all. Will you stay here, or will you come?’

‘With you, of course, I’ll come with you. Triwathon, if... if there’s anything you want to say... don’t be afraid to, just... tell me...’

Triwathon shook his head, his beautiful, sad smile showing.

‘No, it is as you say, Glorfindel,’ he said. 'It is too soon for yet.’


	7. Unfair Advantage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the elves from Imladris arrive

Riding out into the ruined forest to where the Silvans had fallen was, indeed, grim.

Somehow, and nobody dared ask how, the dragon’s corpse had gone from outside the gates, only the stained and crushed grass of the clearing suggesting where it had lain. Privately, Glorfindel suspected Oromë’s host of organising the removal of the body; presumably, their hounds needed to eat something.

Oromë rode with Thranduil and Healer Nestoril, followed by Triwathon at the head of the honour guard. Glorfindel rode close, but didn’t intrude; this was formal duty for the Commander. With them rode several Maiar, including Melaglir whose eyes rested often on Captain Celeguel. She, in turn, glanced at him, and any other day, Glorfindel would have been entertained by timing of the looks, so that neither met the other’s eye.

Not today, however.

‘Ride with me, Commander,’ Thranduil said, and Triwathon gave command of the troop to Celeguel and urged his horse to the side of the king’s elk. ‘You have not been out since the battle?’

‘No, my king, I stayed with our survivors while our Maiar friends kept our boundaries safe.’

‘In fact, Triwathon, you did exactly as you should. I meant merely that this is as new to you as to us.’

‘Sire, I... it is dreadful, and terrible, and I know that our trees will spring again, that the heart of our forest is dauntless,’ Triwathon said. ‘But even for elves, the years to its restoration will not pass swiftly in our hearts. Not after this; it is too grievous.’

Grievous, indeed.

Melaglir moved his horse through the company until he was at Oromë’s side, glancing at him in a look that asked a question. The Vala nodded, lifted his hand, and the Maia moved off.

‘My dear Melaglir will show us where. We are close, King Thranduil, to the start of it. Or the end, depending on your point of view.’

‘So near?’ Thranduil asked. ‘Triwathon, I thought the settlements were further out than this, than you were happy with, as I remember from all your letters...?’

‘Indeed, sire, half a mile, which is nothing, in times of ease, but this is very near...’

‘Some of them got quite a long way before they were stopped,’ Oromë said.

The Maia had halted off to the side of the trail, near a patch of disturbed ground.

‘Here fell Seron,’ he said. ‘Her end was brief fear, and then nothing, but a moment of pain and after, release. I know, lest you wonder, because as I read the ground, it is as if I have seen our Lord Námo come for her. I will have seen him come for them all, lord king, when I reach the places.’

Thranduil dismounted and came to stand near the tortured earth.

‘Seron, your loss angers and pains us. We honour your service, your sacrifice.’

Glorfindel wondered idly what sacrifice Seron had made, other than dying, what her service might have been. Had she a family, left to mourn? Or did all fall on the same day, separately, to be reunited in the Halls of Mandos?

The ritual was repeated all the way to the ruined settlement, out into the woods beyond, and each time Melaglir named the fallen and spoke what he knew, remembered, sensed of their ending, each time Thranduil offered his respects.

When they were done, Thranduil inclined his head to Triwathon.

‘Have your company gather some of the earth from each place and bring it back in token of each. Make sure they do not get confused. These tokens will be placed in suitable containers and placed with their gemstones.’

‘As you wish, my king.’

Another hard task. Triwathon stayed to see it done, Glorfindel keeping him company. At the third site, the commander touched Glorfindel’s arm.

‘Rhoscthel here met her end, the sister of Rusdir, the mother of Maludor and Calemirdor. If Rusdir asks, he might not want me to come with him, so...’

‘Yes, I see.’

‘Of course, Celeguel used to be his captain, she might want to help. She says Melaglir thinks they’ll arrive later today, although how he can know...’

‘I think it’s like how he found everyone; he hears things that are going to happen, or that have happened. Maia. Who knows what they know?’

*

True enough, two hours before the dinner call, a hail from the sentries and the party from Imladris with their Maia escort rode up to the gates.

Not Triwathon’s duty to greet them, not really, but with so few of the King’s Office remaining, he and Faerveren went out.

The horses were approaching rapidly, but slowed before they reached the clearing.

‘Who has come?’ Faerveren asked. ‘I see Master Feren... and there is Lord Arveldir...’

‘With Erestor. Rusdir and Elrohir ride behind them.’

The horses reined in and Triwathon bowed, hurried forward.

‘Welcome, mellyn-nin, come, let the servants attend your horses...’

‘Is it true?’ Rusdir grasped his shoulders, stared into his face. ‘I keep hoping, a mistake...?’

‘Calemirdor and Maludor are safe and were barely bruised; they are as well as can be expected, being cared for with other elflings... I am sorry, your sister...’

‘But you have not found her, surely that means there is hope?’

Triwathon shook his head.

‘I am sorry, but it is certain. We saw where she fell.’

Elrohir stepped up, put his hand on Rusdir’s arm.

‘Come, we knew there was no hope, not really. Commander Triwathon...’

‘Lord Captain Elrohir.’ Triwathon nodded. ‘We are grateful that you came.’

He inclined his head and stepped away. Feren and Arveldir were talking with Faerveren, Erestor looking on.

‘May I see him?’ Arveldir asked. 

No name was needed. Triwathon nodded. ‘Of course. Follow me, my lord.’

*

He would have come anyway. He had come every day, sometimes more than once; it was awful, leaving Parvon there, amongst all this death, and so he had made sure his friend had not been always alone.

But it was different, bringing others here. He had to try to be detached.

Only Erestor followed him and Arveldir in, staying close to his spouse as Triwathon went through it all again, but this time with more guilt, more sorrow, for Arveldir had trained Parvon, had seen his infatuation with Triwathon settle into love, had known Triwathon could not return the depth of Parvon’s feelings.

‘If... if you wish to take his hand, Arveldir, you need to be the other side, I am sorry,’ he said, seeing Arveldir reach out. ‘On this side he was badly... badly hurt...’

‘Oh, Parvon...’

‘He would not let me face the dragon alone. He never let me face anything alone, not if he could help it. And without him... he made it possible for me to kill the beast...’

Arveldir did indeed take the dead ellon’s hand. He bowed his head, unashamed of the tears that tumbled out of him. Erestor stood at his side in respectful silence.

‘Is that true, Triwathon?’ Arveldir asked presently. ‘Or is it a retelling, for the sake of those left? Because... not to me. Whatever the facts, you owe them to me, however stark.’

Triwathon exhaled heavily. In a way, it would be a relief. He had not lied, not as such, but perhaps he had told the tale in such a way as to make it seem Parvon’s part in it greater... he tried to forget his rank and speak just as an ellon to another ellon.

‘He wouldn’t let me go alone. You know he was a good shot. He insisted... and I didn’t insist back, didn’t say, I’m in charge, go back to your desk. Because I knew it was a two-person job, and there wasn’t anyone else... His was first blood, it... did you know, it was a two-headed beast, did Feren say? Well. He damaged the maw of one head, his next arrow took out its eye... I poked its nose and we laughed, briefly. While it was distracted I leapt for the other head... I felt it begin to flame, I shouted a warning, but I was facing away, and could not see Parvon. I killed one half of the beast, then the second head, and it flailed and threw me as it died... Parvon was not in pain, at the end, Lord Oromë took it from him, and we were able to talk for a little. I was with him when Lord Námo came for his fëa. And I am so sorry, Arveldir, I keep thinking, how could I have prevented this?’

Arveldir shook his head.

‘You could not, Triwathon. We were never meant to die, but sometimes Námo calls us home... He... I never regretted not having a child of my own, you know. Parvon was almost as a son to me. I know, he loved you, you could not return his affection... but you valued him. I know you did, you honoured and respected and valued his service. In his next life, he will not remember the pain of the love he had for you.’

‘I’ll remember it, though,’ Triwathon said. ‘I will not forget how he helped me.’

A sorrowing silence drew around them. After a moment, Erestor stirred.

‘What happened to Rhoscthel?’ he asked.

‘I was not there to see, but the tale is she, and others in the settlements, were driven out by flame. Then the dragon... it was hungry... we do not know whom was devoured, who burned...’

Arveldir nodded. ‘That is how it is, with dragons, sometimes.’

‘My lords, I will leave you. Arveldir, there will be others here you knew; their names are written with their gemstones... you should know, also, our king is in residence. He arrived yesterday, and has given us all new heart.’

‘Thank you, Commander; I will be glad to see him once more. It will be quite like old times. Some of them, at least.’

*

While Triwathon had escorted Arveldir and Erestor to the Silent Room, Faerveren had led Feren off to the Palace Office, Glorfindel staying with Elrohir and Rusdir, waiting for Celeguel.

When Rusdir’s former captain came up, she drew him a little distance away to talk. Presently, Glorfindel saw her put her arms round the grieving Silvan in a soothing hug.

‘You sailed,’ Elrohir said softly to Glorfindel. ‘At least, you left with the others, saying you were going to sail. We waved you off. Melpomaen cried, a bit. And now here you are.’

‘Here I am,’ Glorfindel said, spreading his hands. ‘Lord Oromë kindly invited me along on this little jaunt...’

‘Little jaunt?’ Elrohir stared. ‘My honour-sister is dead, and poor Rus over there...’

‘I know. Sorry. They lost more than a score, all told. It was terrible for them, but it could have been worse. I... well, you remember the business with the three dragons? Open plains, clear shots, almost everyone warriors and still they took what, five lives? Only one dragon here, but two-headed, plus an orc attack. And talain full of non-combatants, cut off from the garrison... You’re right, poor Rus.’

‘And poor Arveldir, I suppose... Feren told us about Parvon... Still, that leaves the field clear for you with Triwathon...’

Glorfindel gaped. When he closed his mouth, his lips were set in a hard line.

‘I always liked you, Elrohir,’ he said. ‘Don’t give me a reason to stop.’

‘Sorry; I meant...’

The Balrog-slayer reached out to clasp his arm.

‘Sorry myself. It’s... you hate seeing Rusdir unhappy, I can’t stand watching Triwathon crying over a dead advisor who had the good taste to fall in love with him and the bad manners not to get over it...’

Celeguel came across, leading Rusdir.

‘I’m going to take Rusdir into the forest to see where... if you want to come with us, you’re welcome.’

Glorfindel gave a short nod.

‘Do we want the horses?’

‘It’s not far; our friends have been riding all day, perhaps the walk will be best.’

The woods were no better seen on foot than from horseback; Glorfindel walked at the back of the group and kept a watchful eye over them. Not that there was any need with the Maia on guard around the perimeter, but it was habit, and it kept his mind a little distracted from the horror surrounding him; he could hear, from Rusdir’s exclamations, that the devastation of the forest was a bitter blow to the Silvan. Celeguel consoling, bracing him, saying the sort of thing he’d heard every Silvan say, including Triwathon, since the breaking of the siege.

‘I know, it is terrible. But the heart of the forest is strong, and while Eryn Lasgalen has Silvans to nurture her, she will recover. It will not be swift, but it will happen; soon the days will lengthen once again. Echuir is not so far away, and then the herald flowers will break through.’

It was something to hope for, perhaps, but it seemed far away as they stood near the marker and Rusdir bent to stroke the damp earth. Glorfindel wanted to say, she isn’t here, Námo took her fëa, and what is left of her hröa is broken and spread for the winds to take, but he doubted it would help.

‘When you are ready, we can go back to the New Palace and you can meet with your nephews,’ Celeguel said. ‘They will be pleased to see you, I am sure.’

Yes, that was a much better thing to say.

Glorfindel followed the little group back to the New Palace and left them outside the room where Rusdir’s nephews were being cared for.

‘If you need me, send word,’ he said, but he knew they wouldn’t.

*

Dinner in the hall placed him at the same table as Triwathon, although not beside him. Instead, the Commander was next to Arveldir, and Glorfindel found himself not near enough even for conversation, not without raising his voice, and the mood of the hall was too quiet for that. 

Perforce he contented himself with looking, but that was worse; Triwathon’s eyes had the rigid look to them that suggested weeping not too far off in his past...

Ai, it was impossible! He loved Triwathon, had sailed back for him and yet he had to keep at arm’s reach, only alone with his beloved friend for short periods of time, not stay overnight... even that first evening, all they had done was talk and cling to each other for a few hours, there had been no more than a kiss between them...

Not that Glorfindel minded, not really. Love was love, and yes, it brought desire. But he could ignore that, he could manage... it was seeing Triwathon in such pain that burned him...

After dinner, when he had hoped for at least a few minutes with Triwathon, he saw his friend invited to speak privately with the king. Arveldir was summoned, too, and Glorfindel found Erestor at his side, smiling a sad smile.

‘If you are not busy, Glorfindel, I find I would be glad of your company. I am not needed, at present.’

‘I know how that feels,’ Glorfindel said. ‘Come with me. There’s a bottle of wine in my quarters, too much for one person, but perfect to share.’

Once there, Erestor took a seat, looking prim and formal as he accepted a goblet of dark red wine.

‘It’s not the good Dorwinion,’ Glorfindel said. ‘I don’t know, I think they make it from blackberries... why is that amusing?’

‘Oh, forgive me!’ Erestor had begun to shake with sudden laughter. ‘It brought back a memory of long ago, my first visit to the Greenwood, and Thranduil would tease Arveldir about blackberries since I had a fondness for them...’ He lifted an eyebrow. ‘In much the same way you had a fondness for honey beer. I think your secret was kept for longer, however...’

‘Ah, there’s been none of that lately,’ Glorfindel said, ‘if that’s what you’re asking...’

‘I am Erestor, erstwhile advisor to Elrond. If I wish to know something, I never need to ask. Sometimes, it’s a courtesy, however. But in fact, we are all puzzled to learn you are here. Delighted, of course, for there were few of us who did not wonder at your going...’

‘It’s almost as long a story as the journey has been.’ Glorfindel sighed, sipped, relaxed a little. ‘And I haven’t told Triwathon all of it yet, so you’ll have to put up with the short version...’

‘Of course, my friend.’

‘I thought I was ready to move on, to go back to... But it turns out I wasn’t. I got all the way there, Erestor, actually there, I saw the sands and... and I turned back to the ship. I was lucky, Oromë had this visit planned and he’d been waiting his chance... he let me tag along... Knowing Triwathon was in danger, all he’d built... we rode over the mountains far north of Imladris, it was swifter for the Host, they said... I thought we’d got here too late, the dragon had just been killed, one orc-host vanquished... but there was another troop of orc waiting to attack, apparently... well, Oromë has all the details. The first thing I saw was Triwathon on the ground and a dead dragon next to him... I thought I’d got here just in time to see him die, it was... beyond terrifying...’

‘Then you found Parvon was dead...’

‘Dying, when we arrived. Triwathon was mostly just bruised, picked himself up, was with him at the end. It broke his heart, I think.’ He sighed. ‘I don’t know what I expected... not to fall into Triwathon’s arms straight away, whatever the circumstances, I’m not that stupid. But... and he’s glad I’m here, I know he is... except Parvon’s death... well. If the fellow were still alive, it’d be different, I could take him on, as it were... and it’d still be a mess, difficult, there’d still be dead elves but Triwathon wouldn’t be so devastated... it isn’t fair!’

‘Not fair?’ Erestor said with his small smile. ‘Are you accusing Parvon of... cheating...?’

‘No, I...’ Glorfindel frowned. ‘Well, I suppose I am... yes, that’s just about how I feel, he’s stolen an unfair advantage.’

‘By being dead?’

‘It’s foolish of me, I know...’

‘Apart from the fact that I am certain he did not die on purpose, Parvon was an honourable individual; he would no more dream of cheating for personal ends than you would of cutting your hair! Besides which, as you noted, he is dead. He gains nothing... you have spoken of how it is in Námo’s halls, Glorfindel, you have said; love does not always travel with you beyond death. It is not like you and Ecthelion, there are no vows between them...’

‘Don’t, please, don’t bring him into it...!’

‘Glorfindel...?’

The Balrog-slayer gulped at his wine.

‘I have to tell Triwathon first,’ he said.

‘Are you sure certain? Because I am always ready to listen...’

‘You’ve been a good friend to me,’ Glorfindel said, refilling his goblet and downing its contents. ‘Beyond what I deserved, beyond shared experiences but... no, this I can’t do, Erestor.’

Erestor’s keen gaze swept over him and the dark eyes softened with compassion.

‘Something about this is hurting you, it is obvious. Talk to him, Glorfindel. For your own sake. Talk to him soon.’


	8. Earth Cave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Triwathon takes Glorfindel into the forest...

With the best will in the world, Glorfindel wouldn’t have been able to open his heart to Triwathon even if he’d had the courage; there simply wasn’t time.

Triwathon, Arveldir and Thranduil spent many hours together in discussions about the future of the New Palace, and as the injured recovered enough to speak their memories to the gemstones of their lost friends and family members, so the urgency to lay the dead to rest began to grow; it was, apparently, not done to have dead bodies lying around on the Night of the Names which was rapidly approaching.

‘I don’t understand it fully,’ Glorfindel said to Erestor next morning, both of them lonely victims of yet another of Thranduil’s meetings. ‘It’s either unlucky, or unfortunate, or disrespectful, or something.’

‘Arveldir tried to explain it to me,’ Erestor said. ‘The names of the dead may be spoken up to, and including, their interment, or memorial, as appropriate. The next occasion then is the Night of the Names. If they are not at rest, one cannot remember them on the Night, for how can one speak their names as new if they are still being spoken? There must needs be a clear passing of time between the two events. Even if it is but a day, or an hour.’

‘Parvon will be the last,’ Glorfindel said. ‘They say it’s from respect, but... but I think Triwathon just can’t let him go.’

‘Is he so distressed by Parvon’s death?’

‘I don’t know, he seems... Erestor, I would spend all my time with Triwathon, if he would let me. Instead, it’s as if he wants to be with Parvon, it’s getting worse, not better... and I don’t know if that’s a Silvan thing, or if he really doesn’t want to be with me and... and now isn’t the time for me to get possessive and emotional and demanding, I know, but it’s scaring me, Erestor...’

‘It is a mark of respect to lay Parvon last to rest, truly,’ Erestor said. ‘Arveldir told me the king wishes it thus. Even the memorial cairn for the talain dead will be made first, in token of how Parvon would always seek to ensure all else was done before he took his own rest.’

‘That’s heart-breaking. It’s no wonder Triwathon’s struggling more than ever.’

‘You’ve tried talking to him?’

‘Of course. And he’s nice to me. He smiles, and thanks me, and says he’s sorry he’s not been better company, but it’s something he has to do on his own. Only it feels like everything is something he has to do on his own lately...’

‘Because if he accepts your help, he seems weak in his own eyes. And he needs to believe he is strong, Glorfindel. It is exactly what you used to do.’

‘Well... perhaps. I think it’s more than that... but what can I do, except wait for him?’ Glorfindel sighed. ‘The first night I was here, things were... different. We lay together for hours – just talking, we were even fully-clothed, he let me cuddle him, at least warm him... a kiss or two, no more... but then since I came back from the Old Palace, he’s been... well, Commander Triwathon, my dear friend, but always, always the public face of him, just... brief moments when we’re alone, it’s as if he wants to reach out but won’t let himself...’

‘So... you arrived, saved the day, as ever, comforted him and then rode off next morning? And when you returned...?’

‘I brought Triwathon’s king with me. I suppose that’s it, with Thranduil here he’s feeling more guilty than ever, feels he can’t relax...’

‘That’s one possible interpretation, perhaps...’

‘Erestor? What are you thinking...?’

But at that moment, Arveldir’s voice could be heard in the corridor, and Erestor abandoned Glorfindel to go and greet his spouse.

Triwathon was with him, and presently took up a seat on the bench next to Glorfindel.

‘It is decided. Once the Night of Names is over, all non-combatants, and non-essential personnel will prepare to leave. They will go to the Old Palace, or those who really wish to live in talain, after this, may go to Ithilien. I will stay here, at the head of the garrison, with most of my warriors. Faerveren has offered to stay and scribe for me, and Healer Maereth has said she, too, will remain. For one year, we will keep watch over this part of the forest in memory of our fallen, and after that we, too, will abandon these halls.’

‘I’ll keep you company, if you’ll have me, Triwathon.’

Triwathon began to smile, but somewhere it was lost.

‘A year is not a long time, not to elves, and yet it is still a long march of days. I thank you, my friend. But you might decide you need to be elsewhere.’

‘No, Triwathon. I want to stay with you...’

Now the smile came, and Triwathon met Glorfindel’s eyes.

‘Thank you. Yule Eve feast tonight, Yule tomorrow, the Night of the Names. I must be at the board, our king wishes me to speak the first name... but after that, Glorfindel, oh, after that, would you share the meal with me, just you and me, and our honoured dead?’

‘Of course, of course I will, Triwathon... I would say I will look forward to it, but it sounds wrong...’

The commander nodded.

‘The cairn is building. This afternoon, we will inter most of our dead amongst the trees. We will go out this evening to honour those whose remains were lost. In the morning, last of all, we will inter P...Parvon, and... Glorfindel, would... will you come with me, now, this minute?’

Glorfindel got to his feet.

‘Wherever you want, Triwathon. Lead on.’

Triwathon headed for one of the back entrances to the palace. He left no word with anyone, did not even pause to collect a cloak but inserted himself amongst the trees, expecting Glorfindel to follow, to keep up.

At first it was depressing, demoralising, winding between burned and damaged trees, scorched earth, but Triwathon led on, south and east, away from the worst of the burning.

After almost a mile, he stopped, waiting for Glorfindel to catch up with him.

The forest here was whole, hale and healthy, and a little bit sad, Glorfindel thought.

‘The trees know, of course, what happened elsewhere. In their way, they grieve. But it is a strange thing, some of the trees need fire for their seeds to germinate, so there will be fresh growth, new sprouts... It is not far now. Would you... would you mind...?’

Triwathon held out his hand, eyes anxious, and Glorfindel hurried to slide his fingers between Triwathon’s, to steady his grip.

‘How are you, Triwathon, really?’

‘Really? My dear iphant, I dare not look too closely, but... I am coping, I am on my feet... I have not, yet, wept today. Although I do not think it will last. And I have been distant, I know, because... because I love you, Glorfindel...’

The Balrog-slayer felt his throat close with emotion and tears sting at his own eyes; he had not known how much he needed to hear that, to know Triwathon still cared for him...

‘Triwathon...’

‘Come, it’s not far, now.’

Triwathon led off, tugging Glorfindel along, weaving through the forest until they came to a halt in front of a huge horse chestnut tree, the last few spindly fingers of leaves clinging to its boughs, the hedgehog prickled shells of its fallen fruit still visible here and there amongst the roots.

It seemed to be growing over an outcrop of rock, so that while it reared up straight and tall, its roots had an odd flow to them, and there was an opening, wide enough to pass through, beneath them.

‘Come inside with me,’ Triwathon said, pulling Glorfindel after him into the space made by the roots which spread to form a dome partially supported by the rock, strong and sturdy. ‘Sit with me in the earth cave.’

So Glorfindel lowered himself to the dry earth under the roots, Triwathon at his side, and looked out into the dim light of the forest.

‘This is my tree,’ Triwathon said, releasing Glorfindel’s hand but moving to sit close to him. ‘The horse-chestnut, it is the one I resonate with most. And this one, it is where I thought I would be lain, if I died in war or mischance.’

Glorfindel swallowed at the thought of Triwathon, dead. 

‘It’s a lovely spot,’ he said. ‘You’d be safe, protected by the tree. And in time, I suppose, you would nourish it...’

‘Yes. They say such trees can drink in the fëa of the one resting there, and that they have a new life, in the tree’s life. But I do not know how it can be so, not when the fëa goes with Námo...’

‘Let me guess, it’s a Silvan thing.’

‘Yes. Both cannot be true, yet somehow, we expect them to be. There are not many trees which grow to make earth caves beneath; mostly, they are willow, I think, and oak and yew. So how to find enough trees for our dead now is hard, so many at once... those who were espoused, they will be laid together. But I am giving this tree to P... to Parvon. It will comfort me, to know he is here, that he will live in the forest as part of this tree, my tree. Even though I saw him go with Námo.’

Mad Silvan belief system. But if it gave comfort to them, they who could never quite believe they would be welcome in the West, why not?

‘I know I do not deserve it, I have been so distant, but would... would you put your arm around me, hir-nin, Laurefindil nin?’

‘Oh, Triwathon, you shouldn’t have to ask...’ Glorfindel drew Triwathon into his arms, held him close. ‘Anything you need, anything you want, whatever it is, anything...’

‘Warm, I just need to feel warm. I am cold, right down to my fëa, I’ve not been sleeping and... oh, Glorfindel!’

‘Well, if you will run out of the palace without your winter cloak... here, cuddle in a bit, let me wrap you in mine... there.’

Triwathon shivered against him, more like an elfling than a lover, and Glorfindel stroked his beautiful hair and held him close, trying to warm and strengthen him by the sheer depth of his love.

Presently, Glorfindel could feel Triwathon’s skin start to warm, felt his shivering stop.

‘Love you, Triwathon of the Beautiful Fëa, brave Triwathon, dear friend, beloved friend, love you. If you think you could sleep, then that’s fine, I’ll hold you, protect you while you rest.’

‘All right. If I can, that would be nice. Just an hour, I have to be back for the day meal, there is work to do this afternoon.’

‘Just an hour, then. Get yourself comfortable, there, rest on me, that’s it.’

Within a very few moments, Triwathon’s breath had steadied, he had grown heavy against the Balrog-slayer, and his eyes had fluttered up, the nictitating membranes giving a silvered sheen to them. So beautiful, even in reverie.

Glorfindel settled to his task of guardian, listening to Triwathon’s breathing and holding him close, grateful for the opportunity to spend time alone with this precious and beloved ellon. After a while, he worked a hand free to wipe across his face; Triwathon might not have wept yet today, but of the two occupants of the earth cave, he was the only one...

*

‘Triwathon? My dear friend, it’s time you were stirring...’

Triwathon blinked and sighed as his eyes cleared, the inner lids sliding away. He felt warmer than he had for days, almost comfortable, nearly calm. Oh, that was right, he had brought Glorfindel to his tree, and had allowed himself to drop his guard, just for a little while. Perhaps he felt better for it.

‘Triwathon, you wanted to be back at the halls for the day meal... we need to make a move, my dear.’

Time to break this fragile peace with movement. Triwathon sat up and saw Glorfindel’s outstretched hand. He took it with gratitude and allowed himself to be pulled up and out of the shelter of the earth cave, out into the brighter light of the late morning. He breathed deeply, tasting winter, old burning, but a hint of new hope, somewhere on the breeze.

‘Shall we run?’ he suggested, and set off at an easy lope, holding onto Glorfindel’s hand all the way home to the back doors of the palace.


	9. Vigil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the dead Silvans are finally laid to rest

Glorfindel stood in the open glade outside the gates with the rest of the elves, head bowed as the Silvan Ritual for the Dead rose and fell around him. Names spoken, service remembered, lives honoured. The dead had been brought out, laid close on biers so everyone might gather, might file past and speak their names. Parvon’s body only was absent, still lying in state in the Silent Room; he would have his own Ritual tomorrow.

The air in the glade was close, too warm for this close to the dark of the year, somehow humid with tears, but Glorfindel held his ground; he was not the only one to find it claustrophobic, distressing; Thranduil’s face was drawn, etched with lines never seen except when the king was sorrowing, angry. Healer Nestoril’s grey eyes were swamped with tears. Rusdir was weeping against Elrohir’s shoulder; it was still too raw for him. And Triwathon...

Triwathon could have been carved from stone, an exquisite statue of the Garrison Commander, eyes tragic, but dry, holding himself with perfect elven poise throughout proceedings. 

Ringing the elves were those Maiar not guarding the boundaries; Melaglir offering Celeguel silent support, Oromë watching from the shadows.

Presently, it was time to begin to lay the honoured dead to rest amongst the roots of the trees.

Not everyone, of course, was expected to go to each interment. But Thranduil did, and Healer Nestoril, and Triwathon... so, of course, Glorfindel went, too. 

He walked with Erestor, also part of every burial, since Arveldir was assisting with the Rituals.

And there was a lot of walking. As Triwathon had said, trees with suitable earth caves beneath were not common, and to find so many at once would have been as difficult as it was unexpected. Vowed couples were laid together, family members shared a resting place, but even so the company ranged through the unburned forest for some way before all the lost were settled.

Each person was carried on their bier by four elves, bid farewell and laid under the tree with the assurance they would be remembered at the Night of the Names. When it came to those whose bodies could not be salvaged, branches from trees they loved were laid, along with the pots containing earth from where they had fallen, all together in one tree as close to the talain settlements as was possible. Each individual, each place still had its marker, and as near to the centre of these the cairn had been erected. Not yet complete, it awaited the evening memorial.

It had been decided that the stone memorial would stand for all the fallen, not just those whose bodies were lost to orc and dragon and flame, and that this was where the elflings would come to face the deaths of their parents and siblings and uncles and aunts. Far too young in their little lives, of course, but they had to share in the day somehow or else they would be forever expecting Naneth or Adar to come home...

It was over, for the moment, and they made their slow way back to the New Palace to gather. Now at last, Arveldir could seek Erestor, and the dark-haired Noldo looked an apology at Glorfindel as his beloved husband took his hand and led him away. Triwathon, however, was still on duty, walking with the Elvenking.

‘I will walk with you, child of Gondolin, since you are alone.’ Oromë fell into step at Glorfindel’s side. ‘These Silvans, how I love them, their fierce, determined faith, their ability to know, and yet, still, believe. You love a Silvan, you know what I mean.’

‘I do, indeed, love Triwathon,’ Glorfindel said. ‘And... he says it’s a Silvan thing. And smiles – he knows it’s a contradiction, but... he doesn’t let it stop him. And I love him more for that.’

‘Yes, I think that’s why I am so bound to them; their brave independence. It simply makes me all the more determined to care for them, whether they wish it or not. Although the temptation to tell them, this is wrong, you are wrong, this is not how it is... but of course, that would be to disrespect their wildness.’ Oromë smiled, tilting his head towards Celeguel and Melaglir, his arm now around her shoulders. ‘And I think the Silvan spell has cast itself over one of my Host. Well. I will hope she at least is one to believe she can sail, or my poor Melaglir...’

‘Trust me, he won’t care, not if he’s got his Silvan.’

Oromë laughed. ‘Ai, is that how it is?’

Glorfindel nodded. For even though Triwathon was distant, and damaged, he was still beautiful, still the only one Glorfindel wanted.

‘That’s how it is.’

‘And how are matters progressing there for you? After all, you sailed back for love of him, did not you?’

‘Matters progressing...?’ Glorfindel drew his breath sharply in. ‘Well, they’re not. But that isn’t the point. Yes, I did, I came back because I couldn’t bear to think of how much separated us. And no, things aren’t... as they were, once. They are as they are, and I would still have sailed, had I known, I would still have come back to him. For him, to help however I could, however I can.’

‘At the moment that seems to be, what? By ignoring him?’

‘By letting him do his job. For allowing him the dignity of respecting his wishes. My lord, we may seem like simple creatures to you, but this I know of Triwathon; when he asks you to wait, it’s not just because he wants to see if you will, it’s because he needs you to.’

‘Oh, I don’t think you simple at all, Glorfindel,’ Oromë said. ‘Foolish, yes, coming all this way just to stand back while he suffers and pretend it’s what he wants. But then, what do I know of loving a Silvan? I just love all of them.’

*

Glorfindel fumed through the evening meal, and glowered all the way to the memorial cairn later. Any who noticed his expression assumed he was struggling simply with strong emotion, and recalled the tales of how he had died in the flames and whips of the Balrog, and felt sympathy with him, assuming he sympathised with them even as he remembered. In fact, the Balrog-slayer was almost entirely taken up in his earlier talk with Oromë.

The Vala’s words had been confusing, the accusation that he had been ignoring Triwathon cut into him like claws. For all the Oromë seemed to be telling him to face Triwathon, to speak out, he could not bring himself to do more than speak formally in public and hope for a few more private moments; the memory of the morning encounter in the earth cave sustained him, gave him hope, but the tragedy of all this grief was weighing his poor friend down, it was true; he could almost feel Triwathon’s exhaustion as he joined in the words for the dead, as the time moved on for the moment when the cairn would be capped.

All looked at the commander when he stepped forward, his being the honour, the responsibility, but perhaps only Glorfindel noticed how Triwathon wavered, his upright control faltering and he glanced over with such a look of abject misery in his eyes that it was all Glorfindel could do to stay in place even as he sent loving, supporting thoughts out across the night to him, not knowing whether it would help.

It was done, the stone laid, the king coming forward to speak the names again, the gathered elves echoing them. Glorfindel worked his way through the crowd, slowly, at the back so he wasn’t an intrusion, until he was as near to Triwathon as he possible when the procession finally was free to set off back to the palace.

He made himself a shadow, Triwathon’s shadow, falling into step without a word, without drawing attention, but still, Thranduil noticed and gestured to Triwathon.

‘Commander, consider your duty done for the day; I know the way, Nestoril will walk with me.’

‘Sire?’

‘Go, bear Lord Glorfindel company. He is quite capable of getting lost in a round room with only one door, if the mood takes him.’

Glorfindel bowed, meeting the king’s eyes briefly as Triwathon fell back to walk with him.

‘Lord Glorfindel.’

‘Commander Triwathon, if you don’t object to company...?’

‘Not at all.’ Triwathon folded his hands together behind his back and managed something like a smile. ‘Thank you for keeping watch this morning.’

‘You’re very welcome. Any time, anything I can do...’

‘There is something. I would not have asked, it... it is too much, I fear... But I should let you decide, I suppose. I... tonight is Parvon’s last night amongst us.’

Except it was only his physical remains; his fëa was gone with Námo; already he would be preparing for the healing of his soul...

‘I don’t want him to be alone, Glorfindel, I wish to keep a vigil for him.’

All night?

It wasn’t how Glorfindel had hoped to spend an entire night with Triwathon, sitting with the remains of an ellon he could only think of, now, as his rival... but it was something he could do, at least.

‘May I sit with you, then? Perhaps share the watch? Unless you think he would not like me to be there, in which case, I’ll sit outside the door...’

Triwathon nodded, and if his voice shook as he answered, still, he didn’t look as if he was trembling.

‘I am sure Parvon would be honoured by your presence. As he would be grateful for all you have done since... since...’

‘Is it to be a private vigil, Commander?’ Glorfindel asked.

‘I... had assumed nobody else would wish to take part...’ Triwathon huffed out his breath, as if he was rethinking. ‘I want... I simply don’t want him to be alone, that is all...’

‘Only, I am sure, if Arveldir were to hear of it, he would wish he had been asked. And Maereth, I think she liked him, too. All I mean is, if you want it to be a private matter, you might need to tell them, it’s just for you and him, so that they do not feel badly, after.’

‘That sounds... it would be... indescribably selfish! Glorfindel, I...’

‘You’re not selfish, you’re thinking of him,’ Glorfindel said firmly. ‘Of keeping him company, all I’m saying is there might be other people want to help, that’s all.’

Besides, he’d been at such pains to protect Triwathon from small-minded gossip, could his beloved friend not see that spending the night with him in the Silent Room with just Parvon present might seem... disrespectful...?

‘I see. In that case, yes, I would think... perhaps Celeguel would want to sit with him, too. At least for a little while.’ Triwathon nodded, turned to look at Glorfindel and smile properly. ‘You are right, my friend, there are many here who might wish to join in, or at least to be asked. Would you be so good as to tell Arveldir, for the King’s Office, and I will speak to Celeguel, for the warriors?’

*

‘The day is over.’

Glorfindel and Triwathon were briefly alone in the Silent Room on chairs close to Parvon’s body. Celeguel had been with them for an hour, and had just left. 

A list, somehow, had been made, almost made itself, people adding their names, each wanting to share in the vigil. Next on the list was Arveldir, who promised his company for half a standard watch, two hours.

Triwathon’s voice was soft and calm in the candle-lit dimness. He reached out and took Glorfindel’s hand briefly, squeezed his fingers.

‘The day is over, my dear iphant, and I did not cry today. Tomorrow will be hard, and I may not be strong enough, but... today, I did not weep.’

‘Námo told me once, it’s better to let the tears out than let them drown your fëa,’ the Balrog-slayer said, pausing for a moment. ‘Then again, he also told me King Oropher liked to crochet.’

‘What?’

‘Crochet. Apparently. Rumour has it in the old days, Oropher taught Celeborn, Celeborn taught Celebrian, and she showed Arwen. So, really, all those cushions and elk-antler covers... Oropher’s fault.’

Triwathon grinned in spite of the solemnity of the situation.

‘And now I am imagining Lord Námo’s solemn halls brightened with a variety of tasteful soft furnishings... well, that is something for Parvon to look forward to! Laurefindil... he... he will be all right, won’t he?’

‘He’ll be fine. A little while in contemplation of his life’s deeds – and I’m sure it won’t be long, he didn’t seem like a bad sort – a little while healing his fëa... Námo will take care of him, don’t you worry. Find him other souls to talk to, when he feels more like it. Who knows? He might even meet Oropher. Learn to crochet.’

It was no good; the absurdity made Triwathon giggle. Which in turn made Glorfindel snort, and it was some few moments, and with some difficulty that the two contained their mirth once more.

‘Ai, that feels better!’ Triwathon said. ‘I needed to laugh, I think. And I know my friend would not mind; he had a keen sense of the ridiculous, although he did not often share his amusement.’

‘I suppose he learned it from Arveldir.’

The door opened while Glorfindel was speaking and the advisor entered.

‘Did someone learn something from me? Then my work has been worthwhile. I am a little late; your pardon. Erestor will join us presently, if one or other of you wishes to take a few moments.’

‘Thank you, Arveldir. I will see the dawn come up with our friend,’ Triwathon said. ‘But, Glorfindel? If you wished to go...?’

‘There’s nothing to say it would be disrespectful to share a bottle of wine around, is there?’ Glorfindel said. ‘No? Then, yes, I’ll leave you and Arveldir together for a little while and round up some refreshments.’

*

The New Palace at this hour was calm, its corridors quiet and Glorfindel wandered further than he needed to in search of wine, and beakers. He began to gather a sense of what the place might be like, when there wasn’t tragedy suffusing it, and thought it a pity Triwathon and he couldn’t have made a permanent place here for themselves.

Well, for the next year, he would. If Triwathon stayed, so would he, and then...

Whatever Triwathon wanted, of course.

The tone in the Silent Room, when he returned, was not sombre in the slightest; Erestor had arrived, bringing lanterns to bolster the candlelight, and while Glorfindel suspected this wasn’t exactly what Triwathon had intended, he had to admit it was better, to talk lightly and smile now and then, to drink wine, and comfort each other with kindness.

‘This was a wonderful idea, Commander,’ Erestor said when the two hours of his and Arveldir’s watch were almost done. ‘Is it a tradition?’

‘No. Simply, I could not leave him alone here tonight. You will think me foolish, Arveldir; you know who I have seen, you know what I know... that Parvon’s fëa is already safe with Námo. But...’

‘I do not think you foolish at all, Triwathon. He fëa is gone, but his hröa is not gone, and those of us who are left have to learn what that means. Well.’ He got to his feet and raised his goblet to Parvon. ‘I will come to see you laid to rest tomorrow, old friend. Meanwhile, Triwathon and Glorfindel are here, and I think Feren is coming.’

‘Amathel’s name is here also,’ Erestor said. ‘And so, goodnight, all.’

After Feren, Amathel came with Canadion – Thiriston stayed with the elflings – then, once Canadion had gone, Thiriston joined them, Nestoril with him.

‘Will you not rest, Triwathon?’ the healer asked. ‘You must be exhausted!’

‘I wanted to watch through the whole night with him. When dawn comes, then, an hour or two, that’s all I need. I will sleep when there is time. Besides, it is not long, until daybreak.’

They sat and talked, remembering all manner of things, not simply events Parvon had known, but expanding the conversation beyond the horror of recent events. Presently, Nestoril smiled and stretched.

‘Dawn approaches; can you feel it? I will bespeak some tea for us and then, Glorfindel, you can take Triwathon and put him to bed.’ She broke off as she heard the hiss of Triwathon’s indrawn breath, saw Glorfindel start. ‘I did not mean... I beg your pardon, mellyn-nin, I meant only, Triwathon, you might listen to Glorfindel... I meant no offence...’

‘None taken, Healer,’ Triwathon said, his voice brittle. ‘It is just... circumstance... we are...’

‘I beg your pardon again; it is none of my business, forgive me,’ Nestoril said. ‘I will get that tea.’ 

*

It was brought by Maereth, Nestoril with her, so solicitous to make amends to Triwathon that she handed him his cup personally. Only after, when the tea was gone, and Triwathon had rested his head back against the wall with a sigh, did she smile and nod.

‘Good. Glorfindel, pick him up and bring him; I asked Maereth to dose his tea with something to relax him, we only have a few minutes... this way...’

‘But... Parvon...?’

‘I will stay,’ Maereth said. ‘Go, help Ness. Help Triwathon.’

There was now free space in Maereth’s healer hall again, and Nestoril led the way to a small room with two pallets in. Together they settled Triwathon, took off his boots and his knife belt and covered him lightly. He mumbled but did not stir.

‘Maereth will be back in three hours with something more restorative than the tea... you had better sit down, Glorfindel...’

Indeed, for his head was suddenly light and his senses drifting... from a distance, Glorfindel felt Ness ease him to the other pallet, tug at his boots.

‘When you said, we only have a few minutes...’ the Balrog-slayer managed and somehow, he found himself lying down, a pillow rising to meet his face.

‘Yes, until the potion in your tea did its work; you’re no good to Triwathon if you’re exhausted, too, old friend. Sleep well.’


	10. Hero, Coming Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Parvon is laid to rest

Triwathon was floating, it seemed, floating up from softness to blink clear his eyes and stare at a ceiling which was not his own. Mildly concerned, he tried to move, felt his limbs shake off the heaviness of sleep.

He seemed to be in a narrow bed and, just out of reach, he could see Glorfindel, eyes staring and silvered in reverie, a look of unhappiness to his face in rest that Triwathon didn’t remember seeing when his iphant was awake.

‘Good morning, Commander.’

The voice was Maereth’s, and he turned to blink, to greet her.

‘Healer Mae? What happened, is Glorfindel hurt, are we...?’

‘No, forgive us, one of the healers slipped something into your drinks; do not worry, you have only been resting for an hour or so.’ 

‘They drugged us?’

‘It was a very specific dose, Commander, had you not been – both of you – exhausted, it would not have worked, rest assured. Don’t worry – there is more than an hour yet, before you are needed anywhere.’ She rose from her chair. ‘Now, I will organize breakfast for you.’

When Mae returned, she brought with her servants bearing a small table and an extra chair along with the tray of food.

'So that you and Glorfindel can eat in comfort,' she said.

Just then the Balrog slayer stirred, mumbled something about 'honey beer', and woke from his reverie.

'It is far too early to be drinking, my lord Balrog slayer,' Mae told him, her voice crisp. 'But there is breakfast for you. Come and eat. I’ll be back presently.’

Taking their places and aware, somehow, of a little awkwardness, Triwathon and Glorfindel began to eat. It was a few minutes before either of them broke the silence.

‘Do you know who it was drugged us?’ Glorfindel asked.

‘Mae said one of the healers, that’s all.’

‘Tactful. I suppose that means it was Nestoril. Still, you did need to sleep.’

‘As did you, really.’

‘How are you feeling now?’ Glorfindel asked.

Triwathon dipped his head as he thought.

‘Well, that’s it; I am feeling, for the first time since...’

_...since you rode away to the Old Palace. Just when I thought you were back, and I was not alone, then I was alone again. Since you left me..._

‘...for days,’ he amended. ‘I do not think I like it much.’

‘It's easier to be numb,’ Glorfindel agreed. ‘Not better. Just... Time passes more easily. And it’s Yule. Hard day for you today. ’

Triwathon nodded.

‘For all of us,’ he said. ‘Everyone will feel it, today.’

But a scarce hour later, everyone else was forgotten as Triwathon stood over Parvon’s body. 

Certainly he didn’t seem to register Erestor and Arveldir’s presence, was barely aware of Glorfindel trying to support him, all his attention on Parvon’s remains.

‘I must cover his face now,’ Healer Maereth said.

_No. Not yet. Too soon._

Except it was not too soon; it was time.

Triwathon bent to kiss the cold forehead one last time, and all his restraint broke, setting him loose on a cresting wave of guilt to ride it as best he could. He didn’t weep, not now, he was so tired of weeping, beyond tears...

But later he might have wished he could have wept; at least sorrow would have been a dignified emotion.

Parvon’s face was carefully covered beneath a soft swathe of linen and Maereth straightened, folding her hands together.

‘I will tell them to bring the bier.’

‘The... the bier?’ Triwathon stared, stricken, outraged. ‘Parvon needs no bier; I am going to carry him to his resting place.’

Caught up in shock, the Commander didn’t hear the hiss of indrawn breath, or see Glorfindel bite his lips together and look away as Triwathon continued, becoming near hysterical as his voice rose.

‘I will bear him in my arms, I will lay him to rest in his earth-cave, he died because of me, he deserves no less... you cannot...’

‘You cannot do this.’ It was Erestor who spoke, coming to stand, not facing Triwathon across the body, but at his side. ‘I understand, I do, but... take a moment to consider. You are not the only one to whom Parvon was a dear, a valued friend. Consider, too, what it would look like, were you to carry him. Parents bear their elflings, yes, spouses their beloveds... it would be taken for a declaration of love for him, and think: If his fëa is watching, how will he feel? To believe you loved him, after all, but did not speak, would that hurt him? Would it give him hope, that when he was released from Mandos, you would be waiting for him? Is that how you feel? For that is how he will read it. And that is not to mention those who would see, who might also have feelings for you...’

‘I...’ Triwathon shook his head, stunned and sickened at himself. ‘No, I do not... not like that, really, I... oh, and... Arveldir, forgive me! He was as a son to you, and I... it is the guilt, and the shame that he died while with me, I... Glorfindel, too, I... you must know I...’

‘Don’t worry. I know.’ 

Glorfindel took a deep breath; they were all friends here, they all knew how it was for him, how it had been, how he loved Triwathon. He moved closer and put his arms around his beloved friend, hugging him carefully around the shoulders before releasing him and smiling.

‘Really, Triwathon, I know. Now, what shall be done, then, Commander?’

Triwathon nodded, drew himself in and took a breath.

‘Please let the bier be sent for. My lord Arveldir, I hope you will accept the honour of supporting one corner of our late Chief Advisor’s bier; if you agree, I believe Master Feren would like to stand with you, and you will be for the King’s Office. We will send word to Captain Celeguel, and she and I will take the other corners, for the Garrison, if that is pleasing to you all.’

‘I will walk behind, with Lord Glorfindel, to show the respect of Imladris for a brave and wise counsellor,’ Erestor said with a bow. ‘But first, Commander, I will see the messages passed.’

Triwathon nodded.

‘You will excuse me, I hope. I must change into my dress uniform. Healer Maereth, I leave our honoured friend in your care. I will come to the gates, there to take my place.’

*

Erestor was waiting outside Triwathon’s quarters to walk with him to the gates.

‘There has been a slight change of plan, Commander,’ he said. ‘So many wish to offer their respects by assisting Parvon on his last journey that his majesty has felt compelled to make his wishes known. You and Arveldir will walk at Parvon’s head, supporting him, and behind, all will take turns, so that each who wishes will have a hand on the bier. It will be done with dignity and respect, no jostling. And at the end, Commander, you will place him in his tomb.’

‘No,’ Triwathon shook his head. ‘No, I have been thinking, while I changed. Perhaps – if you ask him, I am sure he would – perhaps you will ask your husband to carry Parvon into his earth cave. It is more fitting, Arveldir taught him so much. Forgive my selfishness earlier – I was full of my own guilt and sought to assuage it. In so doing, I offered pain to the fëar of those I hold in my heart.’

‘Of course, Commander; it was but a momentary lapse, your pain speaking. In turn, I beg your pardon for intervening. Now, come; they await.’

Presently Triwathon took up his place across from Arveldir. The advisor smiled his small, formal smile and nodded; yes, he would bear Parvon to his place. 

Around the bier, the glade was full. All the warriors who could be spared were present, Canadion and Thiriston included. All the injured who were well enough had come, leaning on sticks and spears and each other where necessary.

Ready to grip the pole to lift the bier, and wondering who would take the other two places, Triwathon was astonished when the Elvenking himself stepped forward, along with Healer Nestoril.

Thranduil made a small gesture.

‘Commander, Parvon died a warrior, a hero. Will we not sing him to his rest as such?’

‘Sire, all the way there, we will make the forest resound with song for Parvon.’ He nodded to Celeguel. ‘Captain, “Heroes Coming Home”, of course, all forty verses. Lead us in, and lead us out.’

_‘Heroes coming home,_  
Heroes coming home  
There will be rejoicing, for  
The heroes are come home...’ 

At the end of the second verse, Thranduil gave his place to Feren, Nestoril gave way to Maereth, and so it went, all through the forest, warrior and scribe, healer and talan-dweller, swapping places one with another, singing, singing all the way.

_‘The dragon is now slain_  
And will not come again  
Parvon’s arrows saved us  
So sing a brave refrain... 

Finally they approached the tree with its waiting earth-cave. At the last, Triwathon found Glorfindel at his side, taking over from Arveldir as they halted.

_‘A hero is gone home_  
Parvon is gone home  
They will rejoice in Mandos, for  
Our Parvon is gone home...’ 

The singing ceased.

In the sudden, soft silence the advisor scooped Parvon up in his arms, cradling him like an elfling, and spoke directly to him in a voice that carried across the forest.

‘Parvon, beloved friend, brave warrior, wise counsellor, we have spoken our memories to your gemstone, we have thanked you, honoured you, grieved for you. Now we lay your hröa down beneath the trees in the forest you loved, to be nurtured and nurture in turn. On the Night of the Names, we will remember you, always. Until then, we say, rest well, Parvon. Be at peace.’

‘Be at peace, Parvon,’ Triwathon murmured with the rest, as Arveldir stooped to lay the body within the earth cave.

Celeguel came up, her face breaking, and flung herself at him for a hug. Nestoril and Maereth were consoling others whose grief had broken in tears. Once Celeguel had disengaged, Glorfindel approached to touch Triwathon gently on the shoulder.

‘Nobody seems to know what to do now.’

‘We go back to the New Palace. We participate in the Yule daymeal, those of us with an appetite. And we prepare for the Night of the Names.’ Triwathon looked into Glorfindel’s bluer-than-anything eyes. ‘I must lead the formal observance this evening, but after that... I know I have been awful, but, if you could spare me some time later, I...’

‘I may share your private observances, then? Triwathon, my dear friend, you have not been awful. You should have seen me after... well. There’s a lot we need to talk about, I think, besides our lost friends.’

‘Thank you, yes, that’s what I hoped for, I... it’s not been a good time, for talking.’

Glorfindel nodded.

‘And through it all, you’ve had to keep working.’

‘In a way, that’s helped. Duty has given me structure, responsibilities. Left to myself... well. Another duty, I must be at the Yule daymeal, although I would prefer not...’

‘Do you remember, our first Yule?’

‘Laurefindil, how not? I had duty then, too, but the afternoon free, and we walked in the woods.’ Triwathon smiled. ‘Thank you, I will keep the thought of that with me through the day. But, forgive me; I am wanted...’

‘Yes, you are.’

‘Hir nin, iphant nin...’ Triwathon faltered out a smile. ‘I meant, Feren is gesturing for me to join him. But I am grateful. My thanks.’

*

The hall was full for the Yule daymeal, the king present, many of the Maiar joining them, but Triwathon had little appetite. He had a dull, sick feeling at the back of his head, aware that he was still short on sleep and, with the passing of his numbness, patience, too. Each time he was addressed, he guarded his words, lest he succumb to another outburst such as had overtaken him in the Silent Room earlier. 

How much easier to be numb, to not-feel, to be able to push away all emotions except the grief which would not be denied... 

But that stage had passed, now, and he was left with this churning, nauseating mixture of anger and fear, loss and pain, not just for P... for his dead friend and advisor, but for all that had happened here, the orphaned and injured elflings, the lost warriors and settlers, the failure of what everyone had hoped would be a new and exciting venture, the frustration, and the guilt, and Glorfindel, _oh, Glorfindel, what are you doing here? Why did you come back, just to leave again? Except that is what you do, is it not, dear friend, you arrive, and you take – and you give, it is true – and then you leave again, and I am bereft again, only this time, there is no-one to give me hope, nobody who I can look at and think, one day, perhaps it will not matter, perhaps my fëa will have learned to love better one who loves me whatever I do... but not this time. I have not this comfort now..._

‘Commander?’

Triwathon gave himself a little shake; Arveldir had spoken to him. He made himself smile politely.

‘I beg your pardon, my lord?’

‘I was but wishing to thank you for permitting me to place our friend. I am most grateful. It is a beautiful tree.’

‘Indeed, the finest of its kind in the forest. As was our friend, he was the best of us.’

Arveldir nodded and paused for a moment before continuing.

‘Healer Maereth has said she would like to hold Night of the Names observances in the Silent Room, with the gemstones of the fallen displayed.’

‘A fine idea. Healer Mae is to be thanked. For so many things, in fact.’

‘She would invite you to be First Voice, if she thought you were free. In fact, I understand you are leading the formal observances here?’

‘His majesty has invited me, yes. But if Mae will wait the start of her ritual, I can do both.’

And the Garrison observances, they wanted him, too. Following that, his private rituals... it would be a long evening.

So, after having a word with Celeguel, he took the afternoon off, locked the door to his rooms and took off his formal jerkin and boots before he cast himself down on the bed, Willing his mind into earlier, happier times, right back to his earliest days in the guard, he remembered his first, special friend, the one who had taught him to shoot straighter, faster, the one who laughed and preferred fine red wine to extra target practice, the one who had made him laugh, egged him on to more and more dangerous pursuits until he felt, they felt, invincible...

He sighed awake in the dimming afternoon to a soft, repetitive tapping on his door.

‘Commander? Captain Celeguel...’

Of course, he’d asked her to call him...

‘Thank you,’ he said, opening the door.

Celeguel gave a relieved smile.

‘Oh, you look better! Sorry – it’s just – you do, you look like yourself again. Our Commander Triwathon. Welcome back, Commander!’

‘My thanks for this, also,’ he said, smiling wryly. ‘Well, main hall first, then Healer Maereth has invited me to help with her Silent Room observances...’

‘That’s fine, Commander. Garrison feeling is that most of us want to be part of the main ceremony first, anyway. Come later, but not too late... I have a guest for a private ritual of my own... with... one of our Maia friends is intrigued and so I said...’

‘Would that be Melaglir, by any chance? Celeguel...? Are you blushing...?’

‘It is a fine opportunity to show our exalted guests some of our cultural heritage,’ she said, disregarding his enquiry. ‘So, we will see you later, Commander.’


	11. The Night of the Names

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the community celebrates the Night of the Names, and Glorfindel joins Triwathon for his private commemorations...

The dining hall was full. For once, there was a top table, the king at its head, an empty place next to him, its plate and glass and cutlery laid ready, representing all the Silvan honoured dead. Glorfindel, Nestoril, Arveldir and Erestor took the other seats, and Triwathon was opposite the king. Feren officiated, standing behind the King’s chair. He nodded to Triwathon, signalling time to start.

There was wine in his goblet, rich, red Dorwinion, its dark hue reminding him of all the blood spilled here, and he knew that tonight, this Night of the Names, he was going to break with tradition. For somehow it had become the practice, where the king was present, to begin by speaking the name of his dead beloved consort, mother of his sons, beloved of her people.

But not tonight. The Night of the Names was never about mourning the dead but celebrating them, and although the grief of the recent burials was still so very near, yet it was right to bring this name forward.

‘My lord king,’ the Commander began. ‘Great ones, friends, lords, ladies... we meet on the Night of the Names to honour our beloved dead, and so I say to you, in the light of all that has happened to us of late... all of you here... do you remember Master Parvon?’

He raised his goblet high into the silence, knowing he had taken everyone by surprise but knowing, too, that it was utterly right to give the honour, tonight, to Parvon. Now the name was said, he needed to go on, to offer to them Parvon-as-he-knew-him.

‘Best of friends, wisest of counsellors, bravest of scribes, Parvon was never afraid to take risks for his people. He died bravely, having made it possible for the dragon to be killed, and at the last, he knew his people were safe. I say again: Do you remember Parvon?’

Thranduil got to his feet, and there was approval in his eyes as he raised his goblet.

‘Most faithful of servants, most courageous of advisors, always to be relied upon, always willing to make one more sacrifice, work one more hour... yes, I remember Parvon.’

Triwathon and Thranduil raised their goblets to salute the empty place. They drank, turned to the other guests, and asked: ‘Do you remember Parvon?’

There was a momentary silence as the assembled elves looked to see if anyone was ready to speak, who would go first. It was Arveldir who lifted his goblet and spoke.

‘I remember Parvon; I had the training of him, first as an underscribe, then a junior, all the way up to the point where he was an admirable assistant and quite capable of running the King’s Office by himself – at least, when the king was from home.’ He paused, for this had caused a murmur of amusement. ‘He had the sort of steadfast mind one needs for this job, the deep loyalty that is so very dependable and valuable, and he extended that steadfastness beyond his duty to his friendships. Who could not remember Parvon?’

‘I remember Parvon,’ Canadion spoke up. ‘He was an excellent shot, for a pen-pusher.’

Thranduil exchanged glances with Triwathon, and seated himself. Triwathon, glad to reclaim his seat, tried to be calm as the memories went on around him, one after another speaking of Parvon.

Presently, other names were brought forward for remembering, in connection with Parvon at first – ‘Who here remembers Fonor, Parvon’s brother...? A brave warrior, that one, he will be proud of how his sibling fell...’ and those who were not remaining for the feast and the full remembrance began to slip away. Triwathon found Nestoril at his side.

‘I am going to sit with Maereth for her observances now,’ the healer said. ‘Would you walk through with me?’

‘Of course, Healer Nestoril.’

To his relief, she didn’t ask how he was feeling, or venture an opinion on how he looked, but walked in quietness with him to the Silent Room.  
Maereth and her healing assistants were gathered, and many of the ill from her healing rooms had been helped in; the formal dining hall was too far for some, too crowded for others, and the atmosphere was of a small, intimate gathering set around a table with one empty setting placed.

‘Thank you for joining us, Commander,’ Maereth said. ‘If you would do us the honour, will you be First Voice? Are we all here?’

A click as the door closed, Glorfindel’s voice, softly respectful.

‘We are now, Healer Maereth.’

And once more Triwathon had to get to his feet and lift a glass, and ask speak of his friend the Advisor, and ask who there remembered Parvon...

By the end of it, Triwathon wanted to weep again, hearing of all the losses sustained by those already in physical pain. But there was nothing he could do about that, except speak of his respect for their courage and strength, and leave, grateful to find Glorfindel at his back.

‘Amathel said I might attend the garrison remembrances, too,’ the Balrog slayer said. ‘It’s not that I’m following you.’

‘No, of course not.’ Triwathon smiled. ‘Thank you.’

‘Although I would. Anywhere.’

*

Warrior culture always being different from palace protocol, Triwathon knew of old that these observances would not follow exactly the same pattern. 

As Commander, he was First Respondent here, and Celeguel First Voice. There was more than one empty setting at the head of the table; three, in fact – and not only one name would be advanced for remembering.

Instead, it was a litany, a list – do you remember this warrior, that warrior, through all the names of the fallen guard, for the warriors did not, generally, speak the names of non-combatants. But at the end, Celeguel asked, ‘and Rhoscthel, the sister of brave Rusdir, she who died leaving elflings, do you remember her? And Parvon, who was no warrior, but who died as one, do you remember Parvon, the brother of Fonor?’ 

‘I like this better,’ Glorfindel said presently, when all had been remembered, the gathered warriors were drinking beer and singing ‘Heroes All Gone Home’. ‘It’s much more... well, what Námo would approve of, to be honest.’

‘You might be right. But, really, we are warriors, we have every right to expect to die in similar circumstances, we need to learn to be brave about it... Parvon was brave.’

‘Come on. We’ve both got more talking to do; let’s do it in the calm of your rooms, or of mine.’

Triwathon looked at his iphant, and wondered if he could really bear to open his heart only to have to find the strength for another loss. But Glorfindel had come all this way, and the pain in his eyes was real.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘My rooms, I think. This way, but you know that already.’

*

Triwathon paused on the way to speak to the corridor servant.

‘We would like the meal, please, Cai, as soon as is possible. Two servings, and two settings.’

‘About ten minutes, Commander.’

‘Thank you, Cai. If you can, a bottle of red wine, please.’

‘The finest we have for you, Commander.’

In his rooms, the door closed, waiting for the meal Triwathon pondered how long a time, how short a time ten minutes could be. Not long enough to start talking, not really. Too long to be alone with Glorfindel without speaking.

At least there were preparations to make.

‘Will you sit, Laurefindil? I must change, and clear the table...’

‘I can do that for you, if you like. This isn’t the first Night of Names we’ve shared, after all.’

‘True.’ Triwathon attempted a smile. ‘Well, I will not be long.’

In his bed chamber he took off his formal uniform and found ordinary brown leggings and a white shirt. He left off his boots, since this was his private observance and it was how he felt comfortable, simply dressed, barefoot. Pausing to tidy his hair, he tried to gather his energies, gauge his strength.

The bed was tidy, neutral, and he wondered whether he would share it, later, as he had the first night Glorfindel had arrived, just for a few hours companionship. Or if they would go further, tonight, if he had the strength for that, for the emotional storms that would follow a few hours’ of solace...

It was a stupid thought. Whether he had the strength or not for what came after, he could no more resist the golden-haired warrior than he could resist breathing...

He loved him. Once he had thought it was just a fleeting affection, being in love, as it were, all the intensity and wildness of passion and need and attraction, but always there had been the ghost of Ecthelion, the other half of Glorfindel’s heart, and it would not have been fitting to allow himself to think his love for the Balrog-slayer more than it was. Unbecoming, to claim one already vowed as his own fëa-mate. 

But... he had always suspected, in spite of that, in spite of Parvon’s devotion, that there would be no other for him, not after Glorfindel.  
Well. An interlude of love followed by loneliness; it had always been the pattern of his life, so there was nothing to be done except to embrace it.

*

Glorfindel had cleared the table and placed four chairs around it. He had found drinking cups, and had set them neatly, one at each place and lit candles to stand on the shelf above the fire. He had found time to unbraid his hair so that his former braids fell in crinkling waves that caught the light as he turned to look at Triwathon, smiling in a way that brightened his eyes.

‘You look nice,’ he said. ‘To honour your friend, yes?’

‘And to honour myself, perhaps. This is how I feel most comfortable.’

‘Difficult to relax at all in uniform, I know.’

‘Yes. Please – if you want to shed your coat...’

Glorfindel grinned at him.

‘Just my coat?’

Impossible not to smile in return, to lower his eyes and feel just a little bit interested.

‘Be comfortable – whatever that feels like for you.’

Glorfindel nodded, sliding off his coat and jerkin, stepping out of his boots and leaving them neatly by the door, just in time to open it to the knock.  
The servant was outside with a laden trolley of food crockery, two bottles of wine stood amongst the other items.

‘Thank you... Cai, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, my lord. May I wish you and the Commander a joyous commemoration?’

‘Thank you.’ Glorfindel knew what was proper to ask, to say. ‘I hope you have someone to share the Night with?’

‘Yes, my lord, thank you, I have family here.’

‘That’s good. May your observances bring you only joy.’

 

As Glorfindel began to unload the trolley, Triwathon came over to help.

‘That was kind of you, Laurefindil, to remember, to say to Cai.’

‘Oh, that’s all right. Don’t know what I’d have said, if he’d been alone... supposed I’d have been obliged to ask him to join us...’

‘There is always someone, somewhere, leading an observance for those who have no family or friends to share with. Come, sit, eat; I think I am actually hungry tonight, for the first time in days.’

Venison and roasted roots, thick gravy deepened with wine. Glorfindel spooned generous portions onto his and Triwathon’s plates, leaving the other two empty, while Triwathon poured out the wine. 

He lifted his goblet high. 

‘To my friend,’ Triwathon said, ‘to my first lover, Maedon, who liked fine red wine better than almost anything.’

‘To Maedon, who had the good taste to be your friend,’ Glorfindel said, sipping. ‘Would he have approved this vintage, do you think?’

‘Very much; I think Cai has kept the very best for us tonight.’

They began to eat, Triwathon glancing across at Glorfindel from time to time. Eventually, he spoke.

‘You know, Glorfindel, you can join in at any time with your own remembrances; it doesn’t matter if they’re not Silvans...’

‘Yes, I know. But tell me more about Maedon, I think you’ve said before, he was an archer? Did he teach you to shoot?’

‘He did, he was an excellent shot and I was proud to learn from him. Too much of the poacher about him for the Royal Elk-tamers’ liking, though, and they encouraged a career in the guard for him... he also taught me that it doesn’t do to be always serious. Although perhaps he should have been less light-of-heart about some things, poor Maedon.’

‘Battle of the Three Dragons. One got him, I remember saying his name at the rites.’

‘Yes, the black one. And then I went on to captain the Black Dragon warriors...’

‘I wonder what he’d say if he could see you now, Garrison Commander of the New Palace...’

‘He’d say all of us have to fail, sometimes, but that I had a good run, for my money.’

Glorfindel cringed at the self-reproach in Triwathon’s voice. He pointed at him with his fork.

‘You, Triwathon, failed nobody. Under the circumstances, to get away with, really, so little loss of life...’

‘I failed Parvon.’

The Balrog-slayer drew in his breath sharply. He’d wondered how long before the ill-fated advisor was mentioned, and now it had, he wasn’t going to let Triwathon wallow, not, if he could help it.

‘I remember Parvon,’ Glorfindel lifted his goblet and sipped. ‘I remember how he would look at you, when you weren’t looking, when he thought nobody could see. Utterly devoted, so much love in his eyes. I think I was only ever in company with the pair of you a handful of times, it almost hurt to look... but I do know, he wouldn’t have blamed you.’

‘Even though it was my fault.’

‘No, but it wasn’t. Could you have stopped him going with you to fight the dragon? If you’d told him to stay back, would he have?’

‘No. But...’

‘I know you feel guilty; trust me, I know all about the guilt... I also know, we blame ourselves when if we’d seen someone else do what we did, we would never have said it was their fault! I know you feel guilty, Triwathon, and I know you love him...’

‘That’s it, though. I don’t. I didn’t. I never have.’

_Oh...!_

‘I thought I did, after a fashion... and I didn’t tell him, it would have made things worse for him... but when... this morning, when Erestor said, if I had lain Parvon to rest it would have been seen as a declaration... that Parvon would be waiting in hope and I realised, no, that is not how I feel about him...’ Triwathon stared at his plate, as if the answers were there, hidden by gravy. ‘I liked and respected him, I honoured him for being able to keep on with no hope... but I did not love him. And I suppose, I mourn that loss, too, because I always thought, one day, I would be able to... but now that will never happen. I have no hope...’

This last was whispered and Glorfindel shook his head, bewildered.

‘What... what about us, Triwathon? I thought, you and me...? Do you not...? Have you ceased to...’

Triwathon swallowed, shook his head and met Glorfindel’s bluer-than-blue eyes.

‘I love you, Glorfindel, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower of Gondolin, Laurefindil, iphant-nin, hir-nin, of course I have not ceased loving you. And I know you have kept your distance out of respect for the losses we have had, but... you went away, Glorfindel, you were going to sail... that you came back, what, why? To see me one last time, for a final embrace, a farewell loving...? And I would do that, I will do that, I know it will hurt when you go, perhaps, but... you see, until now, I had always been able to fool myself that one day, there would be someone else to fill the void you leave. I had expected it to be Parvon, but it will not be, and now I know, when you leave me, I will have to cope with the awfulness alone...’

His hazel eyes filled, glistened, and he hid behind his wine cup, inhaling the fumes to stop himself from weeping, and so did not see the dismay on Glorfindel’s face.

‘Triwathon?’ Glorfindel left his place and came to kneel at his dear friend’s side. He reached for him, trying to hold him, console him, cuddle him. ‘Triwathon, you don’t understand... I... I’m not going anywhere, I did sail, I did, I... Oromë brought me back, I’m not going again, not without you, at least, I’m never going anywhere that doesn’t have you...’

Triwathon mumbled something indistinct; the one clear word was a single name: ‘Ecthelion.’

Glorfindel rocked back on his heels.

‘Ecthelion! Do not talk to me of Ecthelion! He... he’s not dead any more, Triwathon, he’s been reborn, he was there, I saw him, but, oh, Triwathon, he’s found someone new! He’s had our vows revoked, by the Valar themselves, and he was there on the shore, playing with his hair, some blonde Galadhrim, cuddling him, Triwathon, can you imagine? How could I ever think Ecthelion was my true-love? When he’d do something like that, see a younger, prettier, thing and run off after it, and abandon me...’

‘Glorfindel? What’s this?’ Triwathon set down his glass, his tears still pooling in his eyes. ‘What are you saying?’

‘I thought when I got there, it would be all right. I thought, it’s just I’d not seen him for so long, and I was stood, on the boat, waiting for it all to come back and there was just this... deadness, coldness, and then this... pretty, pretty toy he had...’ Glorfindel shuddered. ‘And... and he said... he wanted me to... with the Galadhrim... and him... at the same time, and oh, that isn’t right, Triwathon, it’s not how elves behave, it’s...’

All the pain and shame and humiliation of it boiled up and Glorfindel bowed his head and sobbed into his hands.

‘Oh, Laurefindil...!’ 

This Glorfindel, the one in pain and anguish, this Laurefindil was one Triwathon understood, knew how to help. He scrambled off his chair to kneel next to his iphant, to put his arms around him and press the golden head against his chest. Glorfindel’s arms went round him and a renewed bout of weeping shook him.

Triwathon stroked the bright hair with one hand, softly speaking.

‘Lord Námo said something; that perhaps Parvon would find a new love, as Ecthelion had, but I did not understand... I did not realise he meant you, my love, that your Lord of the Fountain no longer cared for you... how could he not, how, how could anyone stop? I could not, have not, will not...’

Glorfindel squeezed him tightly, stopped.

‘Sorry, you were injured, I...’

‘Long ago, Glorfindel, my love, years ago. I am well of it now.’

The golden haired ellon lifted his head to look at Triwathon with tremulous eyes. The chestnut-haired Silvan smiled at him, stroked the hair back from his face with a fingertip, settling it behind his elegant ear.

‘I cannot quite believe... really, you are free from your vows? Forever vows?’

Glorfindel nodded.

‘It seems the Valar have a different understanding of ‘forever’ than we do. I am no longer bound to Ecthelion. And although I am hurt by the manner of my release, shamed that he would think I would... with a Galadhrim, too...! I... it means I am free, Triwathon, if... but if you don’t...’

‘Did you not hear, Glorfindel? I do.’

Glorfindel gulped and wiped the back of his hand across his face.

‘Love you, Triwathon. Right down in the roots of my fëa, you’re there. I need you.’

‘Come, up you get,’ Triwathon rose to his feet, pulled his beloved friend up also. ‘Your dinner’s getting cold, or had you finished eating?’

‘Some more wine, perhaps. Shall we sit by the fire and do our remembering?’

‘I only have one name left, I have spoken so many tonight... but... I’ll drink and say, I remember Baralinith.’

‘That’s a name I know.’ He lifted his glass and drank. ‘To Baralinith, who I never met.’

‘The king’s consort, mother of the princes... I owe her an apology, usually we start with her name... I didn’t know her well – she died when I was very young – but I remember the sadness around her death. But a brave lady. Fëa-mate to the king, but not wife and... it is said... he has since found another love. And all is proper, they were in short vows only but... it makes me think, perhaps, all will be well for us.’

‘Of course all will be well for us, now that we’ve got all this sorted out... so... if we’re done with the dead, shall we take the wine through and do something more life-affirming? Because after all this, I could really use a special Triwathon cuddle...’

Triwathon smiled, remembering, and he moved into Glorfindel’s arms to kiss the corner of his mouth.

‘Complete with the ear-nipping?’

Glorfindel smiled into the soft hazel eyes and hugged Triwathon tight.

‘Ah, well, it wouldn’t be a Triwathon cuddle without the ear-nipping, would it?’


	12. Midsummer Comes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the New Palace winds down its operations and everyone looks to the future.

Glorfindel wanted vows.

‘Because that worked so well for you last time, didn’t it?’ Triwathon pointed out, grinning.

His iphant laughed. Several weeks had passed since the Night of the Names, and Glorfindel had talked through all his jumbled feelings about Ecthelion’s perfidy so many times, Triwathon had listened with so much love and wise advice, that it no longer smarted to think of how he’d been cast aside without consideration.

Well, not much.

‘It’s different, Triwathon,’ he said. ‘I love you – you love me – we are together. I want to share that with everyone.’

‘Everyone already knows,’ Triwathon said. ‘They’ve known since the day after the Night of the Names – when we walked in to breakfast together and you wouldn’t let go of my hand.’

‘They’re happy for us. For you, I don’t think they care about me, especially...’

‘That’s not true.’

‘As much, then. And why should they? I’m just an iphant, a relic of times long gone...’

‘Yes, but you’re my relic. Come, hurry up and dress; we’ll be late for breakfast again. And why you have to wait until we’re in a hurry to be somewhere else to raise a serious topic of conversation...’

‘Because it would be so much quicker and easier if you just said ‘yes’. Really, think about it, if you’d said, that’s a nice thought, Laurefindil dear, all right, let’s, we’d already be sat down with our food in front of us.’

Triwathon laughed and set his coat around his shoulders.

‘Go on, Triwathon, penneth, darling, sweetheart? Say yes?’

Well, it wasn’t as if he was ever going to feel like this for anyone else, was it? And Glorfindel had been so happy these last few weeks, had made him so happy, in spite of all the sadness...

‘All right. Yes.’

‘That’s wonderful! Thank you, my most beautiful fëa’d friend!’

‘...hold on, a moment. Short vows. No, don’t pout, beloved, listen to me, it doesn’t mean I don’t love you utterly and completely and with all that I am; it’s more that... I can’t quite believe it, that you’re free, not really. And I’m not the sailing type. So, short vows, while we’re in Middle Earth. I’m not going to say anything about until death parting us, either, it would just be like asking Námo to the party... But...’ Triwathon broke off with a sigh, smoothing the edge of Glorfindel’s jerkin flat against his chest. ‘But Ecthelion is always going to be there, on the other side of the Sundering Seas, yes, with his pretty new friend, and I still can’t believe how he could...’

‘Never mind Ecthelion.’

‘Come on, never mind anything. I’ve a lot to do today, we’ll talk more about this later. Breakfast.’

*

There was, indeed, a lot to do. Thranduil had stayed on at the New Palace after the Night of the Names but now was ready to depart. With him were going many of the former inhabitants of the talain villages to resettle in the forest around the Old Palace, along with an honour guard made up of about half Triwathon’s garrison.

Glorfindel went with his beloved to bid farewell to those of the guard who were leaving, keeping in the background as Triwathon spoke to each of his warriors in turn with thanks and good wishes and the hope of future reunions. He saw the old guilt rising again behind the lovely hazel eyes, the shame of not being able to keep the New Palace safe, and prepared himself for an evening of bolstering Triwathon’s confidence. Really, that was why he’d mentioned vows today, to give Triwathon something else to think about, something happier, perhaps, but it didn’t seem to have worked.

Amathel left the cluster of warriors to come over to him.

‘Take care of the Commander, Lord Balrog-slayer.’

‘I will, Amathel Knife-Lady. And you take care of the king, won’t you?’

She grinned. ‘Of course. By rights it should be Captain Celeguel leading the honour guard, but she volunteered to stay here.’

Glorfindel nodded. Of course Celeguel was staying put; the Host of Oromë was still at large in the forest around the New Palace, the Vala a frequent visitor to the dining hall and Melaglir always at his side...

Thiriston and Canadion, too, were staying in the New Palace for a while longer.

‘When we said we wanted to work with Triwathon, we meant it,’ Canadion said. ‘Ithilien is not for us. And, besides, there are still elflings here who need us. Well, they need Thiriston. He makes them feel safe.’

Glorfindel nodded. Sometimes that was all anyone needed, to feel safe.

*

Everyone turned out to wave the king farewell. The remaining garrison warriors sang the honour guard off with a chorus of ‘Heroes Marching Out’, and afterwards, everyone felt just a little bit flat and sad, especially as the order had been given to close off one of the habitation wings of the New Palace; there was simply nobody left to live in it.

‘I expect we will all gather closer to the heart of the palace as time goes on,’ Feren remarked to Glorfindel in the dining hall that night. ‘We will feel lonely, I think, as more and more leave.’

The Balrog-slayer sighed.

‘Yes, it was like that at Rivendell. One by one the houses in the valley fell empty, the corridors echoed louder with each departure, the lights went out... but that’s the way of things, I am afraid; this is the Fourth Age, and so many are sailing...’

‘Silvans do not sail,’ Feren said with a sniff. ‘We have no need of anything except what we have here. Not for us the long weariness that drives so many to the ships; our forest is vibrant and alive, and we need nothing more than its song.’

‘Ah, well, Oromë would tell you he has woods and forests in the west that need Silvans in their trees... I honour you, Feren, but... don’t be putting off anyone else who wants to sail with him, will you?’

‘Of course not. Besides, Triwathon cannot possibly manage without me!’

‘Not yet. But the New Palace will be empty soon enough... and then what will you do, Feren?’

‘I will return to serve the king, of course, so that Arveldir can go back to his life with Erestor.’

 

But an odd thing happened in the weeks that followed the king’s departure. Newcomers began arriving, one or two, here and there, all with the same story; they had heard, in the Old Palace, that Lord Oromë had come to take them home, and that here was where the journey would begin. 

One deputation brought a letter from the king for Triwathon.

_‘...for it seems good to us, that as Lord Oromë has said he will take any on his ship who want a place there, that they go first to you, for Lord Glorfindel is eminently situated to speak of sailing to Valinor, and if some change their minds, then you, I know, will offer them sanctuary. And they will depart at Midsummer from the New Palace, and we will come to see them on their way and speak with you then of our gratitude for your service and plans for your future._

_Thranduil, Elvenking.’_

‘We will go then, too,’ Elrohir said when the gist of the letter was made public. ‘Not to sail – no, it’s too soon for that, for us. But to take the little ones home to Imladris.’

‘They think they would like it,’ Rusdir said. ‘Sadly, they are not comfortable with so many trees, not after the fire. There are woods around Imladris, when they are ready to meet trees again. The Host have said they will ride that way to the sea, and we may go with them since it will make the journey swifter.’

‘That will be better for the little ones,’ Triwathon said. 

‘And I am going too, Commander,’ Celeguel said, beaming. ‘Melaglir and I... well...’

’I’m very happy for you,’ Triwathon said. 

‘Midsummer’s Eve is traditional for weddings,’ Celeguel went on. ‘We hope to marry before we leave, so that our friends here can share in our celebrations.’

*

That evening, Glorfindel smiled at Triwathon in the privacy of their rooms.

‘Did you hear Celeguel?’ he said. ‘Midsummer’s Eve is traditional for avowals... unless you think you can be ready for New Year?’

Triwathon smiled back, shaking his head.

‘I cannot possibly take vows at New Year – it is but a week away, and there is far too much to do...’

‘And how long will it take to exchange a few words? Oh, I know, Canadion talks about weeks of wedding preparations, but from what I can gather, most of the time is needed to make bunting... and you don’t strike me as a bunting sort of a person?’

Triwathon buried his face in Glorfindel’s shoulder, burrowing in as he did when he was really distressed about something. 

‘Now, don’t be upset,’ Glorfindel told him, cuddling him in. ‘It’s only that I love you, if you want to wait... I thought you looked sad, and it might cheer you to say no to me again. You know it always cheers you up to win an argument with me about taking vows...’

‘It isn’t that, my Laurefindil, it is... it is too soon, if we were not here, perhaps, but... not yet.’

‘What does that mean, if we were not here?’ he asked. 

A sigh and Triwathon sat up to shake his head.

‘They are still here, the... the ones we laid to rest. Parvon. I can’t... not while... not...’

‘I see,’ Glorfindel said, not seeing at all. ‘My dear one, forgive me, I... when you’re ready, then, tell me. Even if it’s after Midsummer. Besides, it gives us time to sort out some bunting. Now, come to bed; I’ve been working on a special Glorfindel cuddle, it’s a bit like a Triwathon cuddle, but with more nuzzling...’

*

New Year was a quiet celebration in the New Palace, the sense of loss finally giving way to the hope of renewal, but as Triwathon looked around him at the evening feast, he realised that other than the visitors from Imladris, he and Glorfindel, Thiriston and Canadion and Feren were the only ones there who would be see another New Year celebrated this side of the Sundering Seas; all the others present were planning on taking ship with Oromë.

It had been far easier than he had thought, that new arrivals would slot into the places previously filled by existing staff, freeing them to return to new duties at the Old Palace. True, the guard was reduced, as many more warriors wished to stay than to sail, but with Oromë and his Host still riding the bounds, there was no reason to worry.

Everyone was excited, looking ahead, looking forward, only Triwathon sometimes struggling to catch the mood of optimism, Glorfindel constantly alert to support his betrothed.

For Triwathon had gone as far as that, at least.

Up at dawn, New Year’s morning, he had shaken Glorfindel awake.

‘It is no good, you, who are the impatient one, you are keeping me waiting! I want you to have this, today, now, and know I love you.’

Glorfindel had blinked back his inner eyelids to grumble awake... until he saw Triwathon smiling until he glowed, holding something out to him, a long woven strip of leather interspersed with what looked like polished dragon scales of a hue so dark as to be almost black. But here and there an iridescent sheen brought them to life with a vibrant flash of blue.

‘Thank you, my beautiful one, I... what?’

‘You have only just awoken so I will explain. Let me help.’ Triwathon took back the gift, tied it around Glorfindel’s neck so that the scales hung at his throat. ‘It is a traditional betrothal token from a Silvan warrior – in this case, me – to his intended, which is you. It means we will be married, if you still want to, at Midsummer, when this can be worn as an armband, the sign of marriage amongst warriors.’

‘Triwathon...!’ Glorfindel threw his arms around his young lover, burying his face in his neck. ‘Of course I still want to, thank you, this is just what I needed to step into the New Year happy! But... I’ve nothing for you...’

‘I thought of that; I know you would have, had you known. Do you remember...?’

Triwathon unfolded his other hand. In it was a small pebble, striated with bright blue minerals, smoothed from a stream at some point in its past.  
‘Of course I do; I brought it back for you, the first Yule we were together. And you kept it, all this time...’

‘Yes, it has been my greatest treasure. I thought, if you wanted, you could make it into a braid for me; there is a hole in it already – unless you would rather something else, but I thought, that was when I told you I loved you for the first time, and it seems fitting.’

‘Knowing you, you’ll even have a spare strip of leather about you, won’t you?’

Triwathon laughed. ‘Oh, no, I will leave this with you to sort out as you will. Right now, I am wanted at the garrison, beloved iphant. I will see you at late breakfast.’

*

Now, as the feast drew to an end and everyone began to think of leaving to gather at the gates and sing the New Year songs, there was a stirring beside Triwathon as Glorfindel grinned suddenly at him and got to his feet.

‘Everyone!’ he said, drawing all eyes. ‘Some of you have noticed I’m wearing a new necklace today; a betrothal gift from my Triwathon. I... of course, didn’t have anything ready, but I do now and, well... Triwathon, I want to give you this here, in front of our friends...’

He paused to draw out a small bundle from his pocket, to shake out the strands: bowstring, leather, and a braid of golden hair all woven together supporting a bright blue stone which he tied carefully around Triwathon’s throat, holding back his hair gently.

‘Celeguel, sorry, we’re sharing your wedding day, too – Midsummer – if you don’t mind...’

Celeguel shook her head, grinning.

‘Congratulations, Commander! And Glorfindel – it’s about time!’

*

The time between New Year and Midsummer began to speed. Those who were sailing packed such things as they needed – and they were Silvans, really, they needed very little – and cleaned and ordered the rooms they would be leaving empty. The New Palace began to feel empty, hollow, even though it was filled with bright and hopeful voices.

‘Like Rivendell,’ Glorfindel said to Triwathon. ‘When we rode away. Although at the time, it seemed to me, I was staying behind as well as leaving...’

‘Well, I am glad you are here now, with me, even if you did have to sail across the Sundering Seas to realise where you belong.’

‘With you, of course. But what will we do, after they all sail?’

‘We will be together. What else will matter?’

The night before Midsummer’s Eve there was a party, a gathering to say farewell, a mingling of Maiar and Silvan alike. Triwathon stayed for a while, but slipped away soon after midnight.

Since their formal betrothal, Triwathon and Glorfindel had gone everywhere together, so seeing his beloved ease out of the hall without a word was a little worrying...

Out from the New Palace he went, into the forest. At this time of year, the darkness was never absolute, and the trunks of the trees glimmered as Glorfindel ran amongst them, trying to catch up.

‘Triwathon! Wait for me!’ he called out, stopping to look around. ‘Where are you?’

‘Here, iphant-nin, hir-nin. I suppose I should have known you would follow.’

The Commander stepped out from between the trees.

‘Where are you going, love?’

A sigh, tinged with sadness as Triwathon took his hand.

‘It’s just... I thought it might upset you to know what I was going to do. You can come with me, if you like, it’s not... not private. I’m going to visit Parvon’s earth cave.’

‘All right.’ Glorfindel kept hold of Triwathon’s fingers as he set off through the forest once more. ‘Why?’

‘I need to see... to be sure he’s gone...’

Glorfindel frowned to himself. What was Triwathon going to do, crawl inside the earth-cave and look for bones? It seemed disrespectful, unlike his beloved sweetheart, but if it was something he needed to do...

In the end, it wasn’t anything like that bad. Triwathon laid his hand on the trunk of the tree, his forehead touching its bark.

‘There is new life here, Laurefindil, a spirit of joy and gladness. The song of the tree is strong and brave. I... Yes, Parvon is gone. All the gifts he left here have been accepted by the forest, he is reborn in its new leaves while his fëa is with Námo.’ He embraced the tree, released it, and ran to take Glorfindel in his arms. ‘Let’s go home. We’re getting married tomorrow.’

*

Thranduil arrived with a small retinue and honour guard in time for the day meal and Triwathon found himself called into the royal presence later in the afternoon.

‘We are grateful that you stayed to see all done, Commander; it cannot have been easy for you.’

‘My king, it’s an honour to serve. I am only sorry that I failed...’

‘Nonsense; if you had failed, we would have told you. But what will you do now, Triwathon?’

‘I am not sure, my king. Tomorrow, I am taking vows with Glorfindel. After that... we have not given it much thought, except we will not sail.’

‘I admit I am pleased to hear it, Commander; I find I have need of a new Over-captain at the Old Palace, and I would like you to take the post, with Thiriston and Canadion as captains under you. There will be work for Glorfindel too, if he wishes; it strikes me as time we had someone in overall charge of warrior training; it would give him a chance to show off a little.’

‘Sire... it would be my honour...’

‘Good. But do speak to your betrothed first, make sure he is happy with the thought. I understand you are sharing the evening with Celeguel and her Maia friend?’

‘In fact, it is she who is sharing with Glorfindel and I... Lord Oromë himself is acting as Witness for us all.’

‘And will there be bunting, dare I ask?’

Triwathon smiled as he shook his head.

‘No, my king. Much to Captain Canadion’s disgust – he swears it cannot be a proper wedding without such decorations – but none of us getting married wish for it, Celeguel included.’

‘Between ourselves, Commander... I am very pleased to hear it!’

*  
It was a simple ceremony, Oromë presiding, and if the Vala winked when both couples spoke the words, ‘in sight of the Valar...’ then the resulting laughter didn’t make anyone forget their vows. 

When it was turn for Triwathon to speak, he lifted his hand to ask a question.

‘Is it too late to change my mind?’

‘What...?’ Glorfindel demanded, his face crashing into distress.

‘No, I mean – take forever vows, not short ones. I... I was being silly, dear iphant. Always and forever, Glorfindel, wherever the world takes us, this side of the sea or beyond it and Ecthelion missed his chance.’

‘That sounds much more like it!’ Oromë said. ‘Well, Glorfindel? Did you actually hear what your sweetheart said?’

‘I... Yes, Triwathon, don’t ever do that to me again... yes, always and forever, wherever the world takes us, and may Ecthelion and his little blond have the joy of each other, who is this Ecthelion person anyway...?’

Oromë laughed.

‘Give me your tokens, then. There.’ He tied the blue stone on its band around Triwathon’s wrist, fastened Glorfindel’s dragon-scale necklace on the Balrog-slayer’s arm. ‘Triwathon, Glorfindel, your vows are Witnessed, your promised made, always and forever, fëa and hröa, in sight of the Valar, and me, and the bright stars... And so, Celeguel and Melaglir, Triwathon and Glorfindel, live in light and love.’

At the last, he lifted and uncovered a lantern and all around those gathered uncovered lanterns of their own so that light shone out. At the back of the crowd, Thranduil lifted his one lantern high, and inclined his head to the newly married couples.

Glorfindel surrendered to Triwathon’s hungry mouth in their first married kiss. When eventually his beautiful fëa’d friend – his husband, his forever-love – released him, he smiled his delight.

‘Thank you, my dear one,’ he said. ‘But whatever made you change your mind?’

‘I had thought it unfair to bind you to me so utterly. But then I realised – I am never going to love anyone else, and if the Valar can just negate a person’s vows without the consent of both parties, then what does it matter if I claim you for my own as much as I can? And I am yours, now, and you are mine. But come, we must talk to people, sing some of the Midsummer songs. And Arveldir sent a crate of honey beer with the escort... we can help ourselves to a couple of bottles, and then... and then we have the rest of forever to love each other in.’

‘Oh, I do like the sound of that ‘and then’...’

***


	13. Epilogue: A Rather Fine Way to Spend One's Second Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we spend a little time with Ecthelion...

Ecthelion twisted and turned in front of the full-length looking glass, absorbing his reflection. Black leather trousers slicked to his skin, following each and every line of his muscles, highly polished black boots with mithril spurs – even though he would not even dream of mounting a horse with spurs on his boots... a well-fitting frock coat of the darkest indigo silks over a tight leather waistcoat and a soft cream linen shirt.

His hair was held in place with a mithril circlet, his warrior braids glistening like oiled snakes writhing together and he had carefully applied a dusting of kohl to his upper eyelids to emphasise the drama of his eyes.

‘What do you think, darling? Not too much, is it?’

Rúmil lifted the corner of his lip in tolerant amusement.

‘Dearest, you are always and altogether too much for anyone. Now do stop posing, we’ll be late, and you are the one who insisted we go and greet them, remember?’

‘Sorry, darling... of course, you’ve been ready for hours, you are so beautiful you don’t need to do anything about your appearance...’

Ecthelion batted his artificially elongated eyelashes at his blond friend. Rúmil’s hair was deliciously braided and his dove-grey coat with the silver weave running through made him look ethereally beautiful. Ecthelion sighed with delight and took the Galadhrim’s hand.

‘You are utterly delectable, do you know that?’

‘So you have been telling me, pretty one, for the last how many thousands of years?’

‘Oh, who knows...? It is still true, though.’

‘Thank you. And for your information, they are now in the Sixth Age, in the lands on the other side of the Sundering Seas. Well, shall we go and try out this silly idea, beloved Lord of the Fountains?’

‘My dear Rúmil, I have been waiting for you...’

*

The two left their spacious home near the jewelled strands and sauntered inland, where presently, thanks to the magic of the Undying Lands, they arrived outside a set of strong gates guarding the entrance to the Halls of Mandos. 

Shortly thereafter the great doors opened, just a crack, and two figures emerged. They looked hesitant, unsure in the bright sunlight, and Ecthelion waved enthusiastically, his musical voice calling out loud and clear in the crisp air.

‘Helloooo! Over here!’

The two started, presumably surprised at being hailed, and the one with the bright blond hair lifted a hand to wave in return. The other, whose chestnut hair was gleaming like rich flames, caught the hand of his companion. They exchanged words.

‘Oh, I do wish they would hurry...!’ Ecthelion muttered.

‘You are very impatient. Besides, remember what happened last time you tried to invite someone else into our marriage? It did not go well, did it...?’

‘No, I must admit, it did not, the poor dear, it quite took him by surprise... he ran away... right away, across the sea, well, no running away for these two. Besides, a foursome is better than a threesome, isn’t it? Nobody gets left out...’

‘Why we cannot just be two couples, though...’

And then the others reached the gates.

‘Rúmil! You are looking so well!’ the blond exclaimed.

‘Orophin, brother dear, I thought you would never be released...!’

‘Well, I made a friend, and I was waiting for him to work through some of his issues...’

‘Oh, issues, do not tell me about issues, Ecthelion there has an entire library full of issues at home...’

Ecthelion walked towards the chestnut-haired ellon and smiled in what he hoped was a kind and welcoming way.

‘Hello there,’ he said. ‘We haven’t met, but we have a mutual friend... Námo stops by our place to chat sometimes, he’s told me all about you and your connections...’

‘Indeed?’ The ellon inclined his head. ‘The Lord of the Halls has not mentioned you, I don’t think...’

‘Well, let me introduce myself. I am Ecthelion, former lover to Glorfindel, with whom your Triwathon, so I hear, fell in love.’

‘Greetings, lord. Your name of course, is known to me.’ The chestnut haired ellon tilted his head appraisingly. ‘Do you know, somehow I thought you would be more...? well, no matter. My name is Parvon, erstwhile Chief Advisor to the New Palace in the Kingdom of Eryn Lasgalen, under Thranduil, Elvenking... how is Triwathon, do you know?’

‘I have no idea... I think there are some Silvans somewhere in Oromë’s forests, they may have news of him...’

‘It was kind of you to meet us, my lord; I understand your friend Rúmil is my friend Orophin’s brother?’

‘Indeed, isn’t it all lovely and cosy...? Rúmil and I thought you and Orophin might like to play house with us – we have a delightful beachfront property...’

‘You are most kind. In fact, I am going to Oromë’s forests as soon as I can find the way... my brother is there...’

‘Oh, you have a brother too? How lovely!’

Rúmil came up.

‘Darling, I have had a change of heart, you do not mind, do you? I am going with Orophin to look at the forests of Oromë and meet some Silvans – if they are all as lovely as Parvon here, it is no wonder Glorfindel lost interest...’

‘Ha! I lost interest in him!’

Parvon smiled.

‘Triwathon was beautiful, my lord, of fëa and hröa...’

Rúmil placed a gentle kiss on Ecthelion’s cheek.

‘Don’t wait up, dearest, I will be back in... oh, a few millennia, I suppose. But meanwhile, just pack up my stuff, I shan’t need it. Besides, you never know, there may be another ship soon. Although I doubt it.’

‘Really, Rúmil? After all we have been to one another...? Oh, run along then! I’ll just stay here and mope, shall I?’

*

Left alone. Ecthelion found a low boulder to sit on, his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands. It had all been going so awfully well and now... now, he was alone again.

Well. Rúmil had started to pall a little...

There was a noise from afar and he looked up to see a shining figure had emerged from the Halls of Mandos. Tall and elegant, long, white-blond hair pulled back into a single plait, dressed in the palest of greens and the softest of greys... 

He came through the gates to halt in front of Ecthelion, who automatically rose to his feet.

‘Are you waiting for me, perchance?’

He was, frankly, delicious, with anguish in his blue steel eyes, lean and honed by suffering... he looked as if he needed someone to take care of him, at least until others of his kin got here. And that was what Ecthelion did so well, he loved them until someone else came along; he was, he supposed, a foster-lover, in the same way that elflings sometimes had foster-parents.

Although he found his role much more fulfilling...

‘I am here... you are here...’ Ecthelion gestured beautifully and bowed deeply. ‘Ecthelion, formerly Lord of the Fountains of Gondolin. Which matters not a jot in these fair lands. Now I am but a humble beach-comber and lover of the sea.’

‘Oropher. Formerly, I was the Elvenking, responsible for the deaths of far too many fine Silvans... I... titles matter not, perchance, but still, they died... However. Lord Námo says he is bored of my stories and I need to tell them to someone else. I do not know where to go.’

‘Then you must allow me to invite you into my little shack... it is not far...’ Ecthelion gestured vaguely in the direction of the sea and ushered Oropher towards the beach. ‘The views are really quite lovely. I am sure we will have lots to talk about... you have such beautiful hair, did you know? I would love to style it for you, something new, perhaps...’

‘Most kind, I... you really are most generous.’

Ecthelion smiled and fluttered his excessive eyelashes.

‘Not at all; I live quietly, and quite alone, you know, now. I have had a friend staying, but he has moved on. You are welcome to stay for as long as you like.’ His smile became gentle, affectionate and he put a friendly arm around Oropher’s shoulders; after all, he had always had a thing for blonds... ‘I like to play the pipes, and sing, do you sing?’

‘I used to, sometimes. Now, I mostly crochet.’

‘Crochet? Do tell, I am not sure I have ever heard of it...’

‘One uses a hook, and yarn, and can make many useful and decorative items. It is therapeutic.’

‘Perhaps you could show me? Or I will play for you while you sit in the sun and work your craft.’

Ecthelion’s hand slid down from Oropher’s broad shoulders to his snake-slim hips. The former Elvenking looked down at him in surprise, his gaze connecting with something strangely compelling in his limpid eyes and found the guilt and the heartache begin to recede in the glory of that beautiful expression as Ecthelion smiled hopefully.

Oropher felt the corners of his mouth lift in response.

‘That sounds like a rather fine way to spend one’s second life,’ he said.


End file.
